


A Road Less Traveled

by PlayingAtShadows



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Aragorn is Awesome, Drama, Explicit Language, F/M, Humor, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, OC is not Everyone's Cup-of-Tea and is Not Meant to Be, OFC has No Idea What's Happening, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Platonic Relationships, Prissy Legolas, Salty OC, Sarcasm at Its Finest, Sassy OFC, Slow To Update, Sporadic Updates, Violence, strong female character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-06-03 11:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6609175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlayingAtShadows/pseuds/PlayingAtShadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There I was, my back against a tree, cornered by a beautiful, bow-wielding man who dressed as though he had fallen out of an Errol Flynn film—granted, Flynn had nothing on him, in my opinion, anyway—while being verbally harassed by some old geezer." </p>
<p>Herein lies the tale of Kelly Day, an unwitting university student who finds herself playing punchline to one very sick cosmic joke.</p>
<p>In Progress: Updates Sporadic<br/>Cross-posted on FF.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Arrows and Insanity

A Road Less Traveled

Rating: M for violence and cursing.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the characters, places, or situations affiliated with it. They are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien and I have merely borrowed them for my own nefarious purposes.

***

I shall be telling this with a sigh  
Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—  
I took the one less traveled by,  
And that has made all the difference.  
-Excerpt from "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost

***

You know, over the years, it has come to my attention that there are some things that one just shouldn't attempt when one finds one's self in a strange place. Aside from drinking the water, interacting with the locals is one of those aforementioned "some things," and the razor-fine tip of the arrow that hovered approximately an inch from my nose at that moment served quite well to remind me of that particular notion. Of course, I'm pretty sure that possessing the simple grace to keep my mouth shut upon stumbling into this increasingly foreign world might have proven somewhat advantageous to my welfare.

Then again, at first glance, said world really didn't seem all that foreign. That is to say, the trees were the same: The surrounding wood consisted of a mix of towering pines, birches, oaks, and various other species that I had never bothered to learn to distinguish from one another. Here and there, the last remnants of what appeared to be this past autumn’s foliage still clung to their winter-ravaged branches: They rattled faintly in the crisp breeze that ruffled gently through my hair and brought with it the heavy scent of loam and moldering leaves. So, you see, the issue wasn't so much the environment as it was the creatures that presently inhabited it.

I suppose that I can't really blame them for their response, though. I mean, really, how would you react if some random weirdo came blundering into your campsite at an ungodly hour of the morning, swearing at the top of her lungs? Not such a stellar first impression in any case, if I do say so myself.  


Indeed, I didn't exactly put my best foot forward during my first encounter with these people, which is more than likely the reason why I currently found myself standing, face to face, with a deadly projectile.

"Who are you?" Stern and roughened by age, a man's voice tore my focus away from the aforesaid armament, but I caught myself just before I whipped around to seek out the source of the question: A fortunate reaction, I assure you, considering that even the slightest twitch on my part was met with an increase in the tension behind the bowstring as my trigger-happy friend drew it a little farther back. Granted, one might have thought that, at some point in the proceedings, it would have occurred to me that it was more than a little odd that this guy was prancing about with a bow and quiver in the first place.

At that point, however, that little discrepancy was the last thing on my mind: I'd been struck dumb by the mere sight of the being before me. Swallowing, I allowed my gaze to cross the small expanse that separated me from my so-called "trigger-happy" acquaintance who then proceeded to strike me utterly dumb with his visage alone. In later days during moments of levity in which he would attempt to tease me about our first meeting, I would remark that my bewilderment resulted from the fact that I had never before met an ethereal being such as him and not from the first thought that popped into my head, which actually involved the recognition of the fact that he was probably the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen.

Rendered speechless, I could do little more than gawk at his long, flaxen hair and finely- chiseled features. Awed, I blinked owlishly as I took in the sharp cheekbones, graceful jaw and chin, and elegant brow. His eyes, though, were his most remarkable attribute: They were an incredible shade of blue—like sapphire or lapis—and they burned with an unearthly sort of light. He was beautiful: Truly, there was no other word to describe him, though it wasn't an effeminate beauty. No, rather, it was precisely the opposite. Owing to his considerable height and leanly muscled frame, one could hardly mistake him for female—even if his golden tresses made him look a bit like a cast-off from a L’Oreal commercial.

Those glittering cobalt eyes met mine and, with a start, I realized that I was staring at him like an idiot. Face flaming in embarrassment, I quickly dropped my gaze to my shoes as if the pink and gray New Balance were the most interesting thing I had ever seen. In doing so, I ignored the niggling little voice in the back of my mind that inanely noted the fact that the man across from me fell much more so into the category of "intriguing" than did my sneakers. Of course, it might have proven a little easier to admire him had he lowered his bow. Sadly, he didn't seem inclined to do so for the foreseeable future, and I swallowed again in hopes that the voice that had abandoned me would return from its inopportune hiatus.

"I bid you, speak quickly," the aged voice called out once more. "Your silence does not bode well. Again, I ask, who are you?" His tone held the slightest hint of agitation and I felt indignation flare up in the wake of his demand. I mean, honestly, what the heck was his problem? I hadn't done anything to him or his companion and I hadn't any intention to, either, unless I was given a good reason.

Well, a reason other than the arrow presently poised and ready to skewer me.

Now, I consider myself a relatively temperate person for the most part. Then again, perhaps that assessment is somewhat forgiving as I'm quick to anger when presented certain circumstances, but those instances are few and far between. Unfortunately for these fellows, the immediate situation seemed to be well on its way to becoming one of those cases.

"Come now. I grow impatient," the old man—or I assumed it was an old man, seeing how I had yet to actually spot him—continued.

 _Heaven forbid,_ I thought mordantly. _And who on earth talks like that?_

I believe it was this very train of thought that started the “wheels to turning,” so to speak. That is, until that precise moment, I hadn’t really considered the notion that the present situation was probably the strangest predicament I had ever experienced. There I was, my back against a tree, cornered by a beautiful, bow-wielding man who dressed as though he had fallen out of an Errol Flynn film--granted, Flynn had nothing on him, in my opinion, anyway-- while being verbally harassed by some old geezer. Indeed, if anyone had told me over my morning coffee that I would be subjected to this kind of madness, I likely would have laughed quite loudly in that particular individual's face.

And then promptly notified the nearest asylum.

Fortunately (for that someone, at least) I found myself left completely in the dark and, so, wondering how in the name of all that is good and green that I had ended up in this mess. Needless to say, confusion reigned.

"Child…" The hint of agitation in that sage voice had grown into full-fledged annoyance, and I bristled at his tone. I mean, who did he think he was, anyway?  


At last, I found my voice. "Call off your guard dog and I might oblige you." Perhaps that wasn't the most intelligent thing to say, considering that the alleged "guard dog" stood a good head taller than me and wielded a deadly weapon. What can I say? Living is overrated…

Right.

The man before me said something in a soft, melodious language that, even to my addled brain, struck me as vaguely familiar, but, for the life of me, I couldn't place where I'd heard it before. Although judging from the scowl that twisted his lips, whatever he'd said most likely wasn't complimentary. All the same, the idea that I had gotten a rise out of him left me feeling strangely satisfied—stupid as that perception might sound. He seemed far too perfect for his own good.

Luckily, the old man saved me from any further foreign oaths when he spoke once again; this time in my assailant's strange tongue. "Barbie Boy," as I had taken to calling him in my mind, replied in kind and the suspicion coloring his dulcet voice was impossible to ignore.

"Stand down, Legolas." The old man slipped back into a language that I could understand and, even though he'd been less than pleasant thus far, I felt grateful for his interference as my assailant finally lowered his bow and stepped away.

Relief was a fleeting emotion, though, as another thought suddenly occurred to me. Wait…did he just call this guy “Legolas?”

And that, my friends, is when the shit hit the fan.

I just stood there, completely stupefied, before my mouth decided to work of its own accord.

"Legolas?"

The name slipped past my lips as little more than a breathy whisper—in fact, I barely registered that I'd spoken at all—but the words were audible, and "Barbie Boy" whipped around to fix me with a pointed stare. I gazed back dumbly as bewilderment flooded my senses alongside the beginnings of something that felt very much like fear.

My jaw worked, but no sound escaped my lips as I met his icy stare: Too stunned to speak, I kept up that “fish-out-of-water-" look for a few more seconds before I finally forced my vocal cords to produce some semblance of speech. "No…no way…"

With that, I took a fumbling step back and tripped as my heels caught on the shallow roots of the tree behind me. I flinched when my back met rough bark. "Legolas," meanwhile, merely watched my display, his face an impassive mask as I, for the first time in my life, began to seriously question my sanity.

 _Okay, that settles it: No more take-out before bed,_ I told myself somberly while indulging in a hearty mental shake. And, folks, you better believe that I'd make sure to take stock of that bit of wisdom in the future. Well, that is, assuming that I ever got out of this nightmare. Because that's exactly what it was: a nightmare. _It's just a dream, Kel. No worries. Liz will wake you up in a few minutes, stumbling around in the kitchen and shouting about being late for class..._

In spite of the fact that my housemate's obnoxious morning habits usually drove me up the wall, I took a strange sense of comfort in the suggestion that they might rouse me from what I feared might be the first sign of a rapid descent into lunacy. The calming breath I forced myself to take at the moment, however, did nothing to help calm the furious beating of my pulse in my ears. Instead, the action did little more than emphasize the reality of my being very much awake and aware as the scent of damp earth, burning wood, and cooked meat filled my nose. _It's just a dream..._  


Yeah, and who was I trying to kid?

Heart thumping wildly in my chest, I took stock of the clearing, my eyes darting back and forth prior to coming to rest upon a gray-clad figure perched atop what appeared to be a stump. Granted, it could have been a giant toadstool for all I cared, but that's totally beside the point. I, for my part, could do little more than gape at him.

Clad in rough-spun robes with a bedraggled blue hat upon his head, this newcomer peered back at me with dark, distrustful eyes. A tangled mass of gray hair tumbled well past his stooped shoulders, its strands mixing with the long beard that fell nearly to his waist. As he studied me and I him, I mused (somewhat ludicrously, perhaps, in light of current circumstances) that he could have tucked the silvery whiskers into his belt had he wished. Further investigation revealed that resting across his knees was a wooden staff while, at his hip, there lay a leather pouch and a flask of some kind. I also thought I saw what might have been the pommel of a sword, but it was hard to tell from where I stood. All in all, though, the old man fit the description of a wizard to a "T." I had a sneaking suspicion that there was a reason behind that, too, and, growing more unnerved by the second, I ripped my gaze away from him.

"You would do well to speak when addressed, girl," "Legolas'" voice tore me from my frozen state as my head jerked up harshly and I felt the fire of indignation swell once more.

 _Well, isn't he a right ass?_ The question served to jar me back into a somewhat more stable condition, which, of course, led to my shooting off at the mouth again.

"Well, I'd tell you what you'd do well to do, too, but I doubt you'd like it," I spat with much more venom than I thought myself capable. Perhaps whatever strange occurrence had landed me in this mess had temporarily damaged my brain because I think that, had I been in the right frame of mind, I might have kept quiet. Sadly, I was neither sane nor silent by that point.

Instantly, the arrow returned to its former position: Aimed right between my eyes.

"Hold your tongue, wench," he growled.

The flame flared. "First, you tell me to speak and now you want me to shut up?" I dared to challenge. "You're a fickle one, aren't you?"

Unsurprisingly, "Legolas" didn't take kindly to my comments and he snarled something at me in his native tongue. You know, I'd never considered it possible to swear in what I was positive was Elvish, but I highly doubt that whatever he'd just said was pleasant.

A sudden and inexplicable urge to laugh filled me as I stood there and stared down the razor-sharp point of an "Elvish" arrow. _This is insane._ The thought flitted through my brain with reckless abandon and, against my will, a low chuckle escaped my throat. _Check that. I'm insane. Yep, absolutely, positively stock-raving certifiable._

"Right back at you, big guy," I replied as an audacious grin tugged at my lips. Yes, I think that comment sealed the deal right there.

It was official: I had completely and totally lost it.

The arrow tip lowered to press menacingly against the hollow of my throat. "Silence," hissed the "Elf" and, though the word was softly spoken, the threat it contained was not lost on me.

My courage failed and I floundered in my haste to escape him before, much to my dismay, I discovered my escape thoroughly thwarted when my back pressed fully against the trunk of the tree. The metal of the arrowhead pricked at my skin and I forced my eyes upwards, only to catch sight of the expression of haughty triumph that played across my assailant’s handsome features.

At the look, anger, hot and brash, flared in my veins and its fire filled me with a boldness that I had never before experienced: Heedless of the potential consequences, I met his stare unflinchingly and allowed my hands to curl into fists at my sides. Truly, I don't think that I've ever wanted to hit someone so badly as I did him in that moment and I might have actually tried to do so (impaling myself on his arrow in the process, no doubt) had our observer not stepped in.

"Enough!" The old man's voice erupted across the clearing as he rose and stalked towards us; the staff he carried thudded softly against the ground as he approached. I hardly spared him a glance of irritation as I was far too engaged with my "opponent" to do more than shoot him an irritated scowl.

"Legolas, please lower your bow," he requested quietly, raising a hand to rest upon the "Elf's" shoulder.

For a moment, I worried that the "Elf" wouldn't pay him any heed, but, after a few seconds spent in tense silence, "Legolas" did as the old man asked and stepped away. Unconsciously, I raised a hand to my throat and I couldn't stop the sigh of relief that escaped my lips.

Regardless, I felt inclined to toss one last barb in the "Elven Prince's" direction. “At last, comprehension!" The look "Legolas" shot me in response would have, if looks could kill, sent me to an early grave.

With the threat of impalement absent for the time being, I was finally permitted to turn my full attention to the man who now stood before me. That cock-sure smirk still on my face, I lifted my gaze to meet his brazenly, but my bravado was short lived. Deep and glittering, his eyes bore into mine and my voice, once again, failed me.

"Your impertinence does not serve you well, girl," he remarked sagely and I felt my eyebrows lift in surprise at the undercurrent of amusement in the remark. Growing ever more unnerved, I edged away from him as best I could when he leaned forward until his nose was only inches from my own. "Now, tell me please, your name and what business you have in these woods?"

His query was more a demand than a question and I, in turn, was at a total loss. Was he serious? Did he honestly expect me to answer that? Indeed, I had half the mind to ask him what he was doing, traipsing around in the middle of the forest with a guy who thought he was a character from a book, but, for all I knew, both of them were off their rockers. Still, they had yet (and I stress the word "yet") to kill me. So, instead, I settled on remaining aloof.

Lifting my chin, I crossed my arms and asked, "Who wants to know?" At my words, he frowned and, from the corner of my eye, I saw "Legolas" shift his bow into a more ready position.

"You are hardly in a position to ask questions, child," the old man observed.

I have to admit that he was right: My present quandary was precarious at best. I mean I was the one who had, more or less, stumbled upon them. Totally by accident, of course, and I meant them no harm (not that I could have done much of anything, anyway): That particular detail, however, had apparently escaped them. Personally, I would have been more than happy to simply leave the two of them to their own devices whilst I went about finding my way back out of that God-forsaken forest. Unfortunately, neither of these scenarios seemed likely as the old codger continued to stare at me.

 _I've got news for you, bucko,_ I thought as I returned his scrutiny. _I'm not saying a word._

Seeing that I held no intention of yielding the desired information, the old man released a sigh of resignation and chose to humor me. "Among your kind I am known as Gandalf the Gray. You may address me as such," he explained wearily. "My companion is the prince of the great Elven kingdom of Greenwood, Legolas Thranduilion."

I think I started to freak somewhere around "as such." This nutcase actually thought that he was Gandalf and that his trigger-happy compatriot was Legolas of Mirkwood. You've got to be kidding me. For a second time during this bizarre interlude, a smile tugged at my lips.

"Gandalf?" I echoed, struggling to contain my laughter as I looked from one man to the other, "and Legolas?" Facing the so-called "Gandalf" once more, I made sure all traces of mirth had been subdued prior to nodding. "Alright." A giggle threatened to bubble its way up out of my throat and I was forced to swallow it before I continued, "Okay, sure. Whatever you say."

 _Oh, these guys are good,_ I mused. _Not so much as a twitch or grin._ Indeed, they seemed to take themselves very seriously: In fact, "Gandalf" watched me with a gravity that made me downright uneasy.

Said uneasiness only increased when the "Wizard's" eyes narrowed. "You doubt me," he remarked evenly. The level stare that I offered him in response plainly said "well, duh."

"Sorry," I replied without an iota of regret in my tone.

"I speak truly," he assured me earnestly.

I couldn't help my derisive snort at these words. "Right, and what exactly do you take me for? An idiot?" A swift glance at "Legolas" assured me of his thoughts on the matter: I bit back a number of unkind comments in regards to the look on his face and, instead, shook my head, saying, "Never mind. I don't want to know."

"Gandalf" appeared taken aback by my cavalier remark, but I disregarded his expression of shock in favor of carrying on, "So, you know what? I'm just going to go back that way," I gestured absently in the general direction from which I'd come, "and you two can get back to playing Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, okay?"

Not daring to take my eyes off the "Wizard" lest he attempt to stop me, I slipped around the tree…only to collide soundly with something very solid and warm. Brought up short as I was by this unexpected obstacle, it took me a second to comprehend that the "warm something" was, in fact, someone's chest. Lifting my eyes, I muttered, "What's this? Another Merry Man?"

The purported "Merry Man" didn't respond: He merely stared down at me with both brows lifted in astonishment.

I shrugged. "Ah, no matter. Sorry about that, good sir. I'll just be on my way now." That said, I made to step past him, only to have my wrist seized by a calloused hand. A moment later and a strong tug on the captured appendage found me face to face with “Gandalf” once more.

In a heartbeat, I was held fast, both of my arms caught in a vice-like grip, and that simple action was all it took to completely shatter whatever semblance of calm I had achieved since "Gandalf's" revelation. Blood pounding in my ears, I swore vividly and began to struggle wildly.

"Let me go!" I snarled as I thrashed and kicked. I heard a hiss of pain when my heel connected with my captor’s shin and gave myself a mental pat on the back.

"Peace, child," "Gandalf" bade. "No harm will come to you."

"'No harm?'" I cried dubiously. "No harm! In case you haven’t notice, Merlin, I've just spent the greater part of the last ten minutes at the end of an arrow shaft and you say 'no harm will come to me.'" With ever increasing fury and not small amount of terror, I continued to squirm in my captor’s hold. "God, you must think I'm stupid."

The old man raised one great bushy eyebrow and then replied, "You have given us no evidence to indicate otherwise.”

I froze abruptly at the comment, my eyes widening as his meaning sank in, and then exploded. "Why you—I can't—let me—!"

My inability to form a coherent sentence apparently amused the crazy old codger: Granted, he neither smiled nor chuckled or did anything else of the sort and, yet, I still got the distinct impression that he was laughing at me. His delight at my expense served only to fuel my rage and what happened in the next few seconds still remains as much a surprise to me as to those around me.

With a snarl, I tore free of my gaoler, whirled around, and threw all of my weight into launching myself at him. Amazingly enough, the momentum of a hundred and thirty pound woman hurtling into him full force was enough to knock him on his backside. Unfortunately, he took me with him.

"Son of a—!" The curse ended abruptly as I flew head over heels and landed roughly on my back. The impact forced the air from my lungs in a loud, wheezing 'whoosh’ and my initial reaction was to curl onto my side as I fought to regain my breath. Even so, I was still very much aware of the flurry of activity around me.

There was the pounding of many footsteps and exclamations in "Elvish," followed by a grunt as the man I had tackled rose. Then, someone crouched beside me before a firm, yet gentle hand gripped my shoulder and forced me to roll onto my back. Still struggling to breathe, but I managed to pry my clenched eyes open. "Gah—"

His face hovered only inches above mine, his sea-gray eyes clouded with what might have been concern, and my mind immediately registered his supposed identity.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur; Estel; Thorongil; Elessar…whatever. "Get away from me!" I screeched and even I had to wince at the high pitch of my voice. "Aragorn" sat back at the earsplitting demand: He remained, however, crouched at my side.

Well, if he wouldn't move, then I would, burning lungs be damned, and, clumsily, I pitched backwards in terror. "Aragorn" seemed startled by my actions, as though he shouldn’t have frightened me in the least. I guess that, in his mind, he hadn't done me any harm. If I disregarded the faint ache in my chest, I myself had to admit that he hadn't really: Of course, that particular assertion did little to assuage me.

"Get away! Don't come anywhere near me, you freak!" My flight came to an unexpected halt when I slammed into something—someone's legs, I realized—and I flinched before lifting wide eyes to stare at a second raven-haired man.

It was then that the extent of my current position dawned on me and, as I gazed into his hardened face, my blood ran cold.

I was surrounded. Trapped: My only escape was now blocked by a stout little creature clad in rust-colored armor and armed with a lethal-looking axe. _Gimli._

With a speed and grace that surprised me, I sprang to my feet. Staring wildly at the beings that encircled me, I took a step back, even though I knew there was nowhere to flee, and cried, "Stay away from me!"  


"I'm afraid we cannot do that," explained "Gandalf," striding towards me, and, with horror, I realized that I was rooted to the spot. "You have shown yourself a threat to our purpose."

I met brilliant blue eyes and quelled. "A threat?" I cursed silently as my voice cracked.

"Aye." He nodded and turned towards "Aragorn." "Bind her hands."

"Bind my...but I'm—" I was immediately cut off by a piercing stare.

Expression grim, "Aragorn" moved forward, carrying a length of rope he had produced from the folds of his ragged cloak. I still can't believe I even considered what I did next, but, by that point, the fight or flight instinct had kicked in. Flight, I knew, was no longer an option. Thus, marveling at my total disregard for life, I tightened my fists and slid into a fighting stance.

"Aragorn" paused and just stared at me. He looked as though I had struck him, though I hadn't budged, but his expression slowly melted into something far more antagonizing than alarm. Much to my consternation, a slight smile broke out over his weathered features.

"Ah, lassie," "Gimli" called out to me. "Watch yourself. You deal with more than just a man."

Ah, what the Hell? I had nothing to lose. Why not bait the little bugger? At least my last few minutes would prove entertaining.

"Indeed," I replied with a sideways glance. "I suppose you refer to yourself and that little hatchet of yours?" Well, perhaps taunting him wasn't the wisest thing to do? The "little bugger," as I so blithely referred to him, tightened his grip on his axe's handle and spat a curse at me. I arched an eyebrow at his behavior and, casting him a droll smirk, said, "Charming."

A throat clearing drew my attention back to "Aragorn," who stood in front of me, the rope still clenched in his hands. He took a few steps forward and gave me a meaningful look, but I remained as I was and watched him warily. If he thought I was going to go quietly, he had quite another thing coming.

Alas, Fate had other ideas and, before I could so much as blink, something slammed into the back of my skull and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, and here is the first chapter of _A Road Less Traveled_. This fic began as a half-finished ficlet in an abandoned notebook that a friend of mine stumbled across while the two of us were clearing out some junk in my closet. She found the scribble rather funny and when I read it (I'd completely forgotten I'd even written the thing) I did as well and, so, I decided to clean it up and post it. After that, I made it my mission to write a story featuring an original character who was as realistic as possible. I must warn you, though, that I am very slow to update and tend to post in random spurts—that is, a chapter or two at a time and often with weeks (or months) in between. Just bear with me.


	2. Calling Bluffs

A Road Less Traveled

Rating: M for violence and cursing.

Disclaimer: Nope, sorry, folks. It's still not mine. Middle-earth and all that inhabit it are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien, and I am likely doing him a great disservice by writing this kind of junk.

***

I don't know if any of you have ever had the "pleasure" of undergoing anything similar to my latest predicament, but to those of you who haven't, just allow me to say that it is extremely disconcerting to wake and discover oneself trussed up like the neighbor's Christmas turkey.

Our formerly feathered friend would have likely had more leeway, I'd wager.

It was late in the day when I finally returned to the land of the living and, for a few wondrous moments, I honestly believed that the entire ordeal had been nothing more than an incredibly vivid dream. Granted, when I managed to pry open my eyes, I found myself curled up on the cold, damp ground--a position that was, needless to say, more than a little strange. Even so, I scarcely noticed the wet that seeped into my clothes as I squinted blearily at the trees that surrounded me and wondered when the angry jackhammer had taken up residence at the back of my skull.

The pounding in my head made it nearly impossible to think, let alone remember anything clearly. In fact, the last thing that I recalled with even remote surety was standing at the counter in the tiny kitchen of the apartment I shared with Liz, nursing a cup of black coffee and only half-listening as my housemate attempted to convince me to join her and few of our close acquaintances from university for a weekend retreat at her family's lake-front cabin. I'd agreed, if only so I could drink my morning libation in relative peace.

Aside from that vague memory, though, I could remember little else and my head hurt far too much to dwell on anything beyond the constant throb. In fact, all that I could stand to do at that point in time was to lie there like an inebriated slug and speculate on why my brain felt as if it might explode any second. The question of how I'd ended up on the leaf-littered floor of a winter-stricken forest remained a distant concern: I was far more concerned by the very real possibility that I just might throw up.

_I think I have a concussion._ I considered that prospect for a good long moment, but, while a blow to the head would've certainly explained the splitting headache, I was at a loss as to how such a thing might have happened. The gaping hole in my memory was worrisome, to say the least: Its presence ensured that, in those first few minutes after waking, I had little evidence to support the notion that the events of that morning had actually taken place and were not, say, the result of a late-night craving for sesame chicken.

But spawned of Asian-style poultry they were not, I soon discovered as I made to rise. Needless to say, I immediately regretted that particular decision when blinding pain assailed my senses with the force of a lightning bolt and it took everything I had to fight back the nausea that threatened to put last night's Carte du jour on display. Eyes slamming shut, I forced down the bile that rose in my throat and proceeded to silently curse Ming's Szechwan Palace to the depths of Hell and back.

"Holy crap," I managed to gasp once I'd regained my breath. Unfortunately, my reprieve from sickness was short-lived, and I had all of three seconds to launch myself to my knees before my stomach gave another horrid lurch and the contents of the rebelling organ forced their way into the open air. To this day, how I kept from puking all over myself remains a mystery to me.

_Yes, a concussion or, else, one Hell of a hangover,_ I concluded faintly. Although, on the one hand, I had gotten drunk only once in my life (on my twenty-first birthday, just as tradition dictated according to one Elizabeth Meyers) and it had proven to be one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life. As such, I had since possessed little desire to repeat the incident ever again. Granted, the idea of my having gotten absolutely sloshed went a long way in accounting for why my head felt as if it'd had a close encounter with a meat cleaver. And, as if the headache wasn't evidence enough for my newest theory, I'd just spent the last several minutes paying homage to the porcelain gods—minus the shrine, of course.

With one final heave, I sat back on my butt and raised a hand to wipe my mouth, only to jerk back in surprise. 

"What the-?" I murmured, confused as I gave the bonds around my wrists an experimental tug.

And then it all came flooding back to me: Climbing from my bed at an inhuman hour of the morning to take an early morning hike in the forest surrounding the Meyers' property; Liz popping up out of nowhere to scare the living daylights out of me; abandoning the marked trail in favor of chasing her into the trees whereupon she quickly vanished; stumbling upon "Robin Hood" and his merry band; staring down an arrow; antagonizing the self-proclaimed "Gandalf..."

All of it came rushing back with a vengeance and I felt as though I had been doused with icy water as a fear unlike anything I had ever known settled over me like a fog. No, my current dilemma wasn't just some bizarre hallucination brought on by bad take-out or one too many mojitos. I was actually tied-up, staring down at a puddle of my own refuse, while in the hands of several nut jobs who were obviously in severe need of a reality check.

I seriously doubt that I have ever screamed quite so loudly in all my life: In fact, I had lapsed into utter hysterics by the time someone—well, more than one "someone," judging from the racket—came crashing through the undergrowth. I, unfortunately, was far too involved in absolutely freaking out to pay them any mind. Now that I think about it, though, the next few minutes were really rather embarrassing, seeing as I've always prided myself on being fairly level-headed and in control.

Then again, it's not every day that one is kidnapped by a bunch of Camelot rejects.

Hey, even I'm entitled to a total breakdown every once in a while.

I jerked away with a shriek when a hand brushed my shoulder and my voice was entirely too high pitched for my liking as I spat, "Don't touch me!"

"Calm yourself, child," said "Gandalf" from "'Tis only Aragorn and I."

_And he's says that like it should comfort me, _I thought madly while struggling to get as far away from the pair as humanly possible. Half-crazed and nearly tipping over due to the altered center of balance brought about by my bindings, I staggered to my feet and prepared to flee.__

Before I could take so much as take a step, however, I once again found myself ensnared in someone's arms. The thick scent of leather, stale sweat, and something vaguely reminiscent of mint washed over me, but it did nothing to ease my nerves. Rather, it served to set me off quite nicely as it was an obviously masculine odor.

Letting fly a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush, I began to flail wildly in what I immediately realized were "Aragorn's" arms. Honestly, someone should teach the man something about personal space because he had a tendency to invade mine way too often.

"Damn it all!" I snarled, fighting wildly to break free. "Let me go, you oaf!"

"Please, my lady," "Aragorn" beseeched as he shifted his grip. "Be still. We shan't harm you."

Of course, being the stubborn female that I am, I completely ignored him and, if anything, my resistance grew more frantic. Not only that, I could feel heat begin to build at the corners of my eyes and realized that I was close to tears as well. That knowledge alone was enough to transform terror into rage. To think that these screwballs had delivered me to the brink of my sanity in so short a time was more than enough to infuriate me. I eventually snapped, too, much to "Aragorn's" dismay.

The beginnings of a plan forming in my mind, I brought my struggles to an abrupt halt. My sudden capitulation, however, must have raised a red flag because I immediately felt the man's entire body stiffen as if he recognized that I was up to something. Granted, I was, in fact, "up to something," but he didn't need to know that.

Drawing a harsh breath through my nose, I turned my head enough to gaze at him from the corner of my eye and, through clenched teeth, hissed, "Let go." And that was all the warning I gave before I slammed my foot down upon his with as much strength as I could muster.

The shock of the blow made him loosen his hold on my arms and, taking advantage of his momentary distraction, I twisted free just enough to ram an elbow into his gut. The air knocked from his lungs, the "Ranger" doubled over and I tore completely from his grasp.

My first thought was to run and I probably would have followed through with that idea had I not spun around to find myself face to face with "Gandalf."

Or, rather, the business end of his staff.

"I fear I have lost my patience with you, child. Cease this foolishness," he ordered, moving forward as I took a floundering step back. Then, much to my distress, a hand suddenly wrapped itself around my upper arm and I felt the blood drain from my face. The grip was nearly crushing and I knew straight away that it wasn't "Aragorn," whose hold was strong, but never harsh. Besides, the "son of Arathorn" still lingered off the side, one hand braced against a tree as the other cradled his abused stomach.

Warm breath brushed against my ear and I froze. "Move and it shall be the death of you." The sharp tip of what I was certain was an "Elvish" blade pressing into my side served to drive the warning home.

_Oh, God, where the Hell did he come from?_ I thought frantically as I stared down the length of "Gandalf's" staff and tried—unsuccessfully, I might add—to ignore the fact that I stood within a hair's breadth of being gutted like a fish.

Even so, I remained curiously brave and, raising my chin haughtily, I said, "You wouldn't."

At those words, the weapon bore a little deeper into my flesh. "Dare you tempt me, mortal?"

I just couldn't help myself. Really, I couldn't.

Sheer terror will do that to you, you know.

"Entertain thoughts of murder often, 'Legs'?" I inquired cheekily, though I could fairly feel the "Elf's" anger radiate from him. As you've probably noticed by now, I totally lack any sort of self-preservation instinct. Well, actually, I think most people would call it a complete lack of common sense, but, then again, the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. All the same, it's a wonder that I'd survived to the age of twelve, let alone twenty-five.

It was "Gandalf," however, who decided it was best that I shut up unless I wished for "Legolas" to expose my internal organs to the world. "Hush, child," he insisted, "lest the Elven prince silence you himself."

"Oh, please," I retorted before I could stop myself. "He doesn't have it in him."

"I would suggest that you heed his warning, girl," hissed "Legolas," and I gasped when the blade suddenly broke the skin above my hip before something warm began to trickle down towards the waistline of my jeans. Then, without any real idea of how I'd gotten there, I found myself, facedown, on the ground, my arms pinned beneath me while a knee dug harshly into the center of my back.

"Livid" didn't even begin to describe me in that moment. The stupid "Elf" had actually stabbed me. It wasn't anything major, I knew—probably nothing more than a scratch to reinforce who possessed the upper hand in this situation—but it stung like the dickens and pushed me completely over the edge.

"Get the fuck off me, you bastard!" I snarled as I strained against the "Elven Prince's" weight. What was even worse was that, apparently, in the eyes of the "Elvenking's son," tossing me around like a Nurf ball wasn't wound enough for my pride because he had the audacity to chuckle as well. 

"Perhaps now we shall get the answers we seek, hmm?" the "Elf" said quite amiably for someone who had threatened murder only two minutes prior. He shifted slightly and I cursed fluently as his knee pressed into my spine.

Now, in order to clear up any misconceptions anyone might have of my opinions regarding the Prince of Mirkwood, I, too, had always thought that Legolas was somewhat mild-mannered. A bit of a fruit maybe, with all his "I go to find the sun—"crap on Caradhas, but gentle as Tolkien's Elves supposedly were. But as I lay there, trapped between him and the hard earth, I found that my previous outlook on the so-called "Eldar" had all but bit the dust.

_Figures, _I mused irritably. _I get the one "Elf" in "Middle-earth" with a stick up his ass._ Under any other circumstances, I would have, without a doubt, cracked up at that particular thought. But, then, it was kind of hard to laugh when said "Elf" was trying his damnedest to rearrange my vertebrae.__

"I'm not telling you bastards anything," I spat as I continued to try and squirm out from under "Legolas." "Damn it! Get the Hell off me!"

"My, such filthy language for a lady," "Gandalf" commented over my tirade and I could tell that he struggled to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Twisting my neck to the side, I scowled up at him and snarled, "Oh, you haven't heard anything yet!"

"Of that I'm sure," replied the "Wizard" with a laugh.

"You think this is funny, old man?" I asked crossly.

"Quite," he answered casually as he turned to "Aragorn." To the "Ranger," he said, "Come. Let us leave her." He cast me another amused glance. "Perhaps the cold of night will loosen her tongue."

My mouth fell open as I gaped at him. Surely, he wasn't serious? They couldn't just leave me there, tied up and alone…

Could they?

_What are you thinking, you moron?_ I was swift to censure myself. _Of course, they can._ Unfortunately, I didn't have time to dwell further on "Gandalf" or his shoddy reasoning as "Legolas" hauled me unceremoniously to my knees and all but dragged me over to the base of a tree.

"What the—what are you doing?" I screeched.

"Legolas" didn't respond: He just threw me on my ass. I winced and swore, but, before I could launch myself at him, "Aragorn" came to the rescue and restrained me. Still, I thrashed against his grasp and very nearly knocked myself silly when my head slammed into his chin while he knelt beside me. The man jerked out of the way, then threw his arm across my chest so that I recoiled sharply and my head collided with the tree trunk. Dazed, I abandoned my fight--for the moment, anyway.

"My apologies, my lady," I heard "Aragorn" say as I squeezed my eyes shut in pain, "but you must cease these struggles."

Skull aching, I cracked an eye open and glared at him. "Oh, shut up." He frowned at my response and, for some reason, he reminded me in that moment very much of my father whenever I had said something sarcastic and/or, otherwise, rude as a child.

Not that I'm derisive by nature or anything…

_So much for him shutting up…_

Perhaps it would be prudent at this point to mention that it is exceedingly frustrating to know that one is being talked about—right in front of one's face, no less—and be unable to do anything about it because those doing the talking might just as likely be discussing the weather. Not that it mattered to me at that point because I was sure they spoke in "Elvish" simply to hack me off.

I looked up when the conversation ended and watched warily as "Aragorn" and "Legolas" rose.

"We will return in a few hours time," explained "Aragorn." "Perhaps then you will be willing to cooperate."

"I highly doubt it," I rejoined as I glowered at them.

"Do as you wish, then, lady," was the weary response. I didn't bother to answer and, instead, turned my head to the side and refused to even grace them with my attention. As I closed my eyes, I heard something that sounded very much like a sigh before someone brushed away the hair that had fallen across my face. My head shot up and I fixed "Aragorn" with a piercing look. 

Kneeling before me, he peered into my face for a long minute and then, in a soft voice, said, "I wish you to know that we have no desire to be cruel."

"Well, you sure had me fooled," I snipped harshly.

The "Ranger's" jaw tightened. "I apologize," he offered before he glanced down at my hands, still tied and resting in my lap. His brow furrowed suddenly and, upon following his gaze, I discovered that the flesh nearest the ropes was raw and red from my escape efforts. It burned, but I hadn't noticed; I had been too wrapped up in cursing.

His brow creasing slightly, the man studied the abused skin intently and asked, "Are the bonds too tight?" The question surprised me. I mean, I was their captive, after all: They shouldn't have cared for their prisoner's comfort.

It was then that I looked at him. No, I mean, I really _looked_ at him, at this man who claimed to be Aragorn, son of Arathorn. He bore little resemblance to the image of the Ranger from the North that I had conjured in my head while reading the books and, though I could appreciate Viggo Mortensen's exceptional portrayal of Isidur's heir, he shared only a passing similarity to the man in front of me.

Seriously, though, "Aragorn" is somewhat hard to describe. It was kind of creepy, really, the way he was both young and old at once. At first glance, he could have passed for being in his middle to late thirties: There were only faint lines around his mouth and on his forehead and those, it seemed, were more the result of a hard life rather than evidence of advancing age. His hair was still an inky black and there was several days’ worth of dark stubble on his strong jaw. He had stern mouth, a straight nose, and eyes that were the strangest shade of blue that I had ever seen. Like "Legolas," they were the feature that immediately captured my notice. Almost gray, but not quite, their color seemed to shift, one moment the same hue as the ocean before a storm while the next a deep slate.

It wasn't their color, however, that made the orbs so catching and...well, unnerving. No, it was the manner in which they could be so warm and kind and, yet, so stern and sad, all at the same time. My grandfather would have said that they were wise eyes, ones that had seen much since their first opening. Overall, though, I suppose one could say that "Aragorn" was handsome—in a roguish, mannish sort of way, of course.

"My lady?" The "son of Arathorn's" voice snapped me back to the present and I blinked.

"No," I answered finally. "No, they're fine."

_Well, fine, if you disregard the fact I'm freaking tied up in the first place!_ I ignored that particular line of thought and forced myself to focus on "Aragorn."

The man dipped his head briefly and got to his feet. Gazing down at me, he said, "As you say, my lady. We will return at dusk."

Save a vague nod, I offered no response and then watched him turn and gesture for "Legolas" to follow him before the two of them disappeared into the trees. Once they were out of sight, I closed my eyes, a bit mystified by that whole episode, and sank back to rest against the tree.

I figured I might as well get comfortable: I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.


	3. The Beginning of the End

A Road Less Traveled

Rating: M for violence and cursing.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all people, places, and situations affiliated with it are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien. Therefore, they are not mine and I'm not making one red cent off of this thing. There…I said it.

***

I'm not entirely sure when I dozed off, but I must say that I would have vastly preferred a repeat of earlier events to the sight that greeted me when I opened my eyes. I mean, really, who wants to wake up to a cantankerous dwarf breathing in her face?

Startled, I jerked back and shouted, "Christ!"

"Ah, awake now, are you, girl?" asked “Gimli" as he leaned away from me.

Scowling, I lifted my hands to rub my face and replied flatly, "Yes, very."

"Good," he answered before moving away. Baffled and beyond irritated, I watched him as he settled himself across from me and drew his pipe. To tell you the truth, the scene was very surreal (at least, from my viewpoint) and entirely too placid, considering that the "Dwarf" had been all too ready to relieve me of my head only a few hours earlier. In comparison, his current behavior was a bit unnerving, if I do say so myself. It was like the calm before the storm: You didn't know quite when Mother Nature was going to start waling on your behind.

Nevertheless, I found that I didn't have the strength to care that I was, in all likelihood, about to cast myself into the fire. I was tired, dirty, and I had the queen mother of all headaches. I was so not in the mood to deal with him—or any other member of the "Fellowship," for that matter. No, I just wanted to go home, take a bath, and swallow half a bottle of aspirin.

Dropping my hands into my lap, I sighed, "What'd you want?" "Gimli" didn't respond; he was too busy stuffing his pipe. Regarding him through narrowed eyes, I felt my already frazzled nerves begin to fray and, when he struck the flint he'd withdrawn from the pouch on his belt, I decided that I'd had enough.

"Okay, look," I began and the "Dwarf" glanced over at me. "I'll be the first to admit that you guys are probably the best bunch of actors I've ever seen, but I'm pretty sure this could be considered harassment—"I paused and shook my head, "—no, actually, I think we crossed the line into 'harassment' about twenty miles back, so if you don't want slapped with a lawsuit the size of Texas, I suggest you let me go."

"Afraid I can't do that, lass," replied "Gimli" as he puffed on his pipe. "Let you go, that is. Can't have you running back to your master, now can we?"

Now totally confused, I arched an eyebrow and asked, "What? 'Run back to my master?' What on earth are-?" I interrupted myself mid-sentence when it finally dawned on me. "Ah, I see." For a second there, he'd almost convinced me. Yes, folks, for the briefest moment, I'd almost believed that I actually sat before Gimli, son of Gloin. He'd just seemed so sure of himself (and of me and my intentions) that I'd nearly bought it. Apparently, my nerves weren’t the only thing beyond frazzled at that point. _Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm pleased to announce that Miss Kelly Elaine Day has officially cracked._

I could have laughed.

Instead, I heaved another sigh and muttered, "Never mind." I earned only a grunt in response and, shooting "Gloin's son" a sour look, I lapsed into silence: I was much too tired to try and keep up a one-sided conversation, which is what would have surely ensued had I continued. "Gimli" didn't seem overly loquacious and, if truth be told, I rather enjoyed having a head on my shoulders. So, instead, I opted to draw my knees to my chest and rest the aforementioned head against them as I took in my surroundings.

The sun had long since set and the night air had grown frigid due to a bitter wind that blew from the east. I'd never really noticed just how cold I was until that very moment: I was relatively sure that I'd lost all feeling in my backside, but that may have also been the result of sitting in the same position for so long. Speaking of "positions," I suspected that, during my brief foray into unconsciousness, I had been removed from the clearing in which I had first encountered Merlin and his crew. My present resting place was a small, sheltered area in the shadow of a massive oak tree. It was littered with leaves and a fallen log that currently played perch to "Gimli," who hadn't so much as spared me a whit since my earlier threat of legal action.

You know, I'll admit that I'm not all that talkative myself, and, most of the time, I could care less if someone ignores me. However, it does irk me beyond measure for someone to act as though I'm the month-old meatloaf they found at the back of the fridge. All the same, I'm much more inclined to retribution than reprimand and, with that proclivity coming to the forefront, I tried another approach with my dear "Dwarven" friend.

"So, how much are they paying you to wear that getup?" This time I did laugh when he whipped around to stare at me as if I'd just sprouted antennae or something equally insect-like. Ducking my head to hide my grin, I cleared my throat and asked with as much innocence as I could muster, "What?"

The "Dwarf" sputtered for a second and then scowled at me. "'Pay' indeed," he reiterated. "I'll have you know, girl, that I'll have no reimbursement for my efforts."

I swallowed my smirk and replied, "I'm sorry to hear that." Straightening my legs, I leaned back against my tree in an attempt to appear as casual as possible and went on, "I would think that if someone were going to use my…ah, height disadvantage to their benefit, I would receive some compensation for my troubles." Yes, I intentionally baited him. I considered myself quick enough to avoid any major mishaps and, thus, it probably served me right for what happened a few moments later.

"'My height dis—' confound it, girl, what are you on about?" he blundered.

I disregarded the question in favor of goading him further. "In fact, I think I'd be rather upset by the exploitation."

You know, I don't think I have ever seen anyone turn that particular shade of red: I figured that it couldn't possibly be healthy.

"Quiet, girl, before I lose my temper."

_Too late for that, m'dear,_ I thought amusedly before saying, "Seriously, though, isn't that stuff hot," I gave him a quick once over, "and heavy?"

Eyes wide, "Gimli" reared back slightly in disbelief. Then he seemed to remember himself and, leaning towards me, he braced one hand on his knee while the other brandished his pipe at me. "Now, listen here, lass, and listen well—"

"Master Dwarf?" At the address, "Gimli" halted half-way through his reprimand, and I found myself struggling to control my mirth at the expression on his face; his eyes narrow and mouth hanging wide open. A glance up, though, and the laughter immediately died on my lips.

"Aragorn" stood, watching us, at the edge of the trees. I wondered fleetingly how much of our exchange he'd witnessed, but then I spotted the stern expression on his face and realized that he'd seen a great deal more than I would have liked. He was well aware that I had deliberately provoked the "Dwarf," and, feeling a little guilty, I looked away. Of course, that didn't change the fact that I thought him a sneaky little bugger for creeping up on us in the first place.

Schooling his features, "Gimli" straightened and turned to the "Ranger. "Aye, laddie?" he asked.

"Come. It has been decided that we must move on," "Aragorn" explained. Though he'd spoken to "Gimli," his eyes rested on me, and he had that look on his face, the one that made me feel about two inches tall. "It grows late."

"Gimli" nodded once and rose. Then he paused and, throwing me another contemptuous frown, he asked, "What of the girl?"

"I will deal with her," replied "Aragorn." "Go."

The "Dwarf" snorted, but said nothing else, and I watched with no small degree of smugness as he lumbered off into the woods.

"I caution you against taunting the Dwarf," said "Aragorn,” making his way over to me. "He is swift to anger."

"What are you doing?" I asked, rather than acknowledge the rebuke. I figured I'd probably get under "Gimli's" skin even worse at some point later on, so why bother?

"Aragorn" gave no answer as he crouched beside me. Before I could continue to badger him, however, the muted sound of metal scraping leather caught my ears, and I froze like a deer in headlights. 

_Holy shit! He's going to kill me!_ was the single thought that passed through my mind when I recognized the familiar "shish" of a blade being drawn from its sheath. With a panicked cry, I threw myself backwards. Sadly, I'd forgotten just how much my movements were impaired by my bindings, and, yelping, I landed roughly on my side. Nevertheless, I fought violently to escape him and ended up scraping myself up pretty badly while scooting across the uneven ground. In the end, however, the "Ranger" cornered me against the trunk of a tree and, in a last desperate effort to protect myself, I threw my arms up to shield my face. _Oh, my God, I'm going to die. I'm going to die out here, in the middle of nowhere, and by this lunatic's hand, no less._ Something tugged at my feet and I screamed before kicking savagely at the air.

"My lady," I heard "Aragorn" say from above me; he sounded torn between exasperation and placation, "please, it would be much easier to cut your bonds if you did not lash out at me so."

_He's going to—Huh…_ Cautiously, I lowered my arms to peer at him. "What?"

"We must hurry," he explained as he took my arm and hauled me to a seated position. "It is nigh past time to leave this place." Crouching, he took up the knife he'd apparently dropped when I'd tried to clobber him and, in one fluid swipe, severed the cords around my ankles. I watched in stunned amazement as they fell away. _Damn, that thing's sharp._

Seeming pleased with his handwork, "Aragorn" returned the blade to its sheath and rose, pulling me along with him. I was a bit shaky at first—the muscles in my legs felt like jelly—and I muttered an embarrassed "sorry" when I nearly toppled into him.

"It is no trouble," he uttered, his hands resting on my shoulders to steady me, "but we must go. Gandalf wishes to speak to you."

Anger reared its ugly head at the mention of the "Wizard," and I snorted before shrugging out of "Aragorn's" grasp. "Oh, sure, is that what he said?" I spat. "Because, you know, where I come from, what he's said and done so far warrants jail time." 

As soon as those words left my mouth, I regretted them. I had all but opened up what was sure to be another tiresome conversation and I, honestly, did not want to discuss it, for the sake of appearances or not.

I waited for the question. _Here it comes…_

"And where do you come from, my lady?"

_Damn it._ Miffed, I cursed my own stupidity (not to mention, my run-away mouth) and grumbled, "As if I'd tell you."

"Aragorn" frowned. "Perhaps, my lady, it would be in your best interest to cooperate. I fear your tongue will be the end of you."

Narrowing my eyes at the implication, I took a step towards him and asked, "Are you threatening me?"

"A warning, my lady," he stated by way of reply. "From your dress and speech, it is obvious that you are no native of this land. You will find that many here lack the same sort of patience both Gandalf and I possess."

I bristled. "You know, that was a really long-assed way of telling me to shut up." The "Ranger" closed his eyes then and released a heavy breath, as though asking which deity he'd wronged to be forced to deal with me as punishment. I smirked in spite of myself: It seemed he was at the end of his so-called "patience."

He quickly mastered himself, however, and faced me, his expression calm as he said, "Come now. We've wasted time enough here." And, without waiting for me to respond, he seized my wrist and began to pull me into the trees.

"Whoa—what are you—"I started, but hushed upon spying his sharp look, and we stared at one another for a short time before I sighed and submitted. "Oh, fine. Lead the way."

"Aragorn" nodded curtly and resumed his prior course, dragging me alongside, yet we walked for less than five minutes before he came to a halt. Around his shoulder, I spotted a glint of reddish light through the dense trees just before my nose caught the scent of burning wood.

I realized quickly that the faint flicker must be a fire and "Aragorn" confirmed that suspicion by saying, "My companions are waiting just beyond those trees. I offer you a word of caution ere you meet them: Keep your tongue and your temper. A recurrence of your earlier actions may very well earn you the dislike of all those in my party and you cannot afford any grudge in light of your current position."

I figured that he left the "in other words, I will not save your sorry behind if you piss them off—" part unvoiced.

Because you know he'd really say something like that…

"Thanks for the words of wisdom," I replied sarcastically. "I'll keep them in mind."

"I would ask that you heed them," the "Ranger" insisted. "We have been lenient thus far, but should you continue in your previous manner, I doubt you will find friend among us." "I don't want to 'find friends,'" I snapped as my own patience began to wane. "I just want to go home. Now, if you don't mind, take me to see the crackpot, so we can get this over with."

"Aragorn's" frown deepened—if that was possible—but he said nothing else on the subject of my behavior and, instead, complied with my less than polite demand. "As you wish." Taking my arm once again, he led me towards the firelight in the distance.

As we neared it, I became aware of voices—one deep amid higher tones—engaged in eager conversation. They grew louder with our approach, and "Aragorn" cast me a wary sort of glance. "There are four among our number that you have yet to encounter. I advise that you—" His suggestion, which I suspected had something to do with me watching my mouth, was cut short by a strangled cry and, in an instant, the sword that the "Ranger" kept fastened at his hip was free. He whipped around, but paused and turned back to me long enough to say, "Stay here."

And, then, he charged headlong into the darkness.

Bewildered by this sudden turn of events, I remained as I was, standing stupidly where he'd left me, before my brain finally decided to kick in and insisted that I take off after him. "Hey! Wait!" 

It never really occurred to me as I tore through the brush after "Aragorn" that this was my chance to escape and be done with him once and for all. It was a fortunate thing, too, that I didn't get any ideas of that nature or I likely would have wound up dead faster than you can say "Orc."

When I burst into the circle of firelight a few minutes later, I discovered a scene that struck me as both unbelievably funny and yet so very disturbing at the same time. I mean, it isn't often that one comes across four grown men and a dwarf, flaunting their weapons at empty air.

Taking in their alarmed expressions with confusion, I studied the group for a second before I asked, "What on earth is going on here?" When five pairs of startled eyes turned to me, I immediately shied from the scrutiny and I would have turned away altogether had "Aragorn" not shifted slightly to his right. With the view no longer obscured, I caught my first glimpse of them, those who would seal my fate and set me off on my downward spiral into insanity.

Standing just outside the fire's light were four tiny, curly-haired, bright-eyed creatures. Clad in cheery greens and yellows, they couldn't have stood more than three or, perhaps, four feet tall. Oh, and they had the most disgusting feet I have ever seen—thick-soled and covered in hair—but, aside from that, these new beings were rather cute—in a teddy bear, puppy dog kind of way, that is.

It was really too bad that they stared at me as if I were about to eat them, but, then again, I took little notice of their expressions as my mind thrust into overdrive. Unlike the others, they couldn't pass for human or dwarf. They were too well proportioned, if a little rotund, and I had never seen anyone with feet quite like that, no matter what ailment they claimed to have. Suddenly, something in my brain clicked and I realized what I gawked at: Hobbits—four Hobbits, to be exact.

_Holy crap…_

I hit my knees as shock assaulted my senses. _No…no, it's not possible! I'm not actually sitting here, staring down a pack of Halflings. I did not smart off to Gandalf the Grey and I did not tackle the future king of Gondor. These idiots are NOT the Fellowship of the Ring. It's just a book. Tolkien made it all up and I'm going to wake up in three, two—_

"It is some magic of her making!" someone shouted, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Now that I think about it, I suppose I should have been happy for the distraction, seeing how I was about two and a half seconds away from hyperventilating.

I had spazzed out on these people more than enough for one day, thank you very much.

Tearing my eyes away from the little creatures, I searched out the source of the accusation and found myself staring at a tall, broad-shouldered man. Although he was several inches shorter, he resembled "Aragorn" in terms of features: He was dark-haired and gray-eyed, and it took me only a moment to recall his name. He was Boromir, the eldest son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor—and he looked like he could have murdered me in that moment. Standing across the fire, his face set in an angry scowl, he held his sword aloft as though he expected me to fly at him at any second.

Needless to say, I was more than a little confused and, not to mention, totally freaked. Pushing myself slowly to my feet, I turned to look at "Aragorn" and asked cautiously, "Okay, what the Hell is he talking about?"

The other man said nothing. His attention was fixed upon something else, something on the ground a few feet away. Curiosity getting the better of me, I looked down and nearly burst into laughter. 

For heaven's sake, you'd think they'd never seen an iPod before.

_They haven't, nitwit._ I gave myself a mental shake. _Oh, no, you don't. You're not falling into this nonsense just yet._

Sighing, I took a few steps towards the device, which I could now hear blasting Coldplay's "Yellow" through the ear buds, but, before I reached it, "Boromir" bellowed, "Stop her! We mustn't let her have it! It is a demon's box, I say! It must be destroyed!"

Now, _that_ certainly brought me up short. Fearing for the life of my most prized piece of modern technology, I rounded on the man. "WHAT?" I cried, throwing him an incredulous look. "Are you psycho? That thing was expensive."

"It is of a witch's keeping!" he rejoined, striding towards it. "It plays music without minstrels and bears strange writing!"

"I would hesitate to call that 'music,' my Lord Steward," I heard "Legolas" pronounce from somewhere to my left.

"Oh, piss off, Elf Boy," I retorted. "We don't need comments from the peanut gallery." If "Elf Boy" had a comeback, I chose to ignore it. Returning my gaze to "Boromir," who appeared somewhat stunned by my vehemence towards the "Elf," I growled, "And if you take one more step towards my iPod, I can guarantee you there'll be Hell to pay."

Surprisingly enough, he seemed to take my warning seriously and backed off, though he stared at me as if I were a harpy or something. On the other hand, that particular assessment might not have been so far off, considering the circumstances.

Fairly sure that the alleged "son of Denethor" wouldn't attempt anything that he'd regret, I spun around to face "Aragorn" and "Gandalf," who stood side by side and watched me carefully. If the expressions on their faces were any indication, it seemed that they weren't quite sure of what to make of me. I felt the pounding between my temples increase tenfold at the mere thought of dealing with them again, but it was time to put an end to this once and for all.

"Alright!" I exclaimed. "I've had just about enough of this…this madness! Somebody better tell me what the Hell is going on before I really lose my temper!" Granted, I'd lost my temper more times in the last few hours than I had in the last few years, but I suppose that makes little difference since I was sure to lose it a great deal more in the future.

"We are mere travelers, child," "Gandalf" explained calmly. "We seek a road east." If I could have pinched the bridge of my nose, I would have when he said that to me. He was nuts—absolutely bonkers.

Plain and simple.

_"Mere travelers," my ass, _I thought scathingly and, taking a deep breath in an effort of regain my ever-thinning cool, I closed my eyes before saying, "You know, contrary to popular belief, I'm not stupid." I opened my eyes and focused solely on the men in front of me. "I don't believe for one second that you're actually Gandalf the Grey and that Blondie over there is Legolas Greenleaf. So, now, seriously, tell me who put you guys up to this."__

Not a single soul in that clearing spoke after my outburst. Deafening silence filled the air, and I watched as "Aragorn" and "Gandalf" exchanged baffled glances. I'm sure that "Legolas" wore a similar expression, though he probably bore it with much more grace. He appeared to have that way about him, which was rather annoying in my opinion. Regardless, none of them seemed inclined to answer me anytime soon and, at last, I rolled my eyes and breathed a heavy sigh.

"Okay, you know what?" I said, rubbing my face with my hands. "Forget it. Just untie me and let me be on my way. No one even needs to know that this happened and we can all go on with our lives."

"We have told you before that we cannot do that," "Gandalf" spoke at length. "To release you now would be to jeopardize everything we have achieved thus far."

I snorted. "And that would be what exactly? What have you done? Other than run around the forest like a bunch of fools?"

"I would ask the same thing of you, young one," the old man replied coolly. My last nerve snapped. "Me?" I spat, my face flushing. "Me! I was minding my own damned business until you came along!"

The old coot was laughing at me again. I could see it in his eyes when he said, "Yet it was you who disturbed our rest this morning."

"Hold it right there, old man!" I demanded indignantly. "That was an accident! Believe me when I say that I could've gone the rest of my life without meeting you lot!"

"It is unfortunate then, that you have indeed encountered us. Perhaps you will tread more carefully in the future." Then he turned away from me, as if that last comment put an end to the conversation, and addressed "Aragorn." "See to it that she is secured. She mustn't escape."

The younger man nodded and I scowled before grumbling, "I'm still here, you know."

"I am well aware, child," "Gandalf" assured. "Now, to the rest of you, make haste. We must leave ere the moon rises." And, that said, he headed off into the forest without a backwards glance.

I stood, rooted to my spot by his lack of regard for me, and watched him vanish. Soon, though, a hand upon my arm drew me from my stupor and I sighed under my breath. Apparently, "Aragorn" was up for another round. Sadly, I wasn't and, glancing over my shoulder, I inquired, "Aren't you tired of this yet? We've nearly beaten each other senseless already."

To my complete amazement, the "Ranger" offered me a dry smile, which seemed quite out of place on his rugged features, and replied, "I would ask that you go quietly, had I not the thought it would be a waste of breath."

"Ah, you know me well."

The man chuckled quietly at my comment and I couldn't help but grin. It was nice to see him smile, to hear him laugh, as he came across as someone who seldom had the chance to indulge in such things. I'll admit that he may have very well been a total loon, but he had been kind to me—in comparison to his companions, anyway—and, for some reason, it bothered me for him to act so solemn. It was obvious that life had not been kind to this man.

The thought was sobering, and I worried my bottom lip briefly before I spoke again. "Hey…uh, listen…" I hesitated before trailing off. The soft entreaty, however, caused "Aragorn" to turn and he inclined his head for me to continue. I did so, though I didn't know why I bothered. I knew what he would say. "You seem like a pretty decent guy, so I'm going to just ask you straight out. Why are you doing this and what are you planning to do with me?"

The questions brought a frown to his lips and he gazed down at me for a long moment as though measuring the weight of his reply. Then, just when I thought he wasn't going to answer at all, he said, "I do this because I have no other choice. You are a stranger and until Gandalf is sure of your intent, you must travel with us."

I groaned inwardly: I'd been afraid he'd say something like that.

"I see," I conceded. "Alright then, I'll play your friend's little game." Well, in truth, I saw little else I could do; I would simply have to play along until I figured out a way to escape them. I really hate being so difficult, but some people simply beg to see my mulish side.

Namely "Gandalf the Grey."

"What 'game' do you speak of, lady?" asked "Aragorn" curiously, and the pounding behind my eyeballs tripled.

"Oh, never mind. Just tie me up or whatever," I acquiesced resignedly, but, at the clouded look that crossed "Aragorn's" face, I shook off my weariness and added wryly, "Wouldn't want 'Gandalf' to lose faith in you, now would we?" It was a pretty pathetic attempt at cheering him up, I have to admit.

"Indeed," replied the "Ranger," yet his voice lacked its previous humor and I felt like I'd kicked a wounded puppy. "Come. I shall introduce you to Bill. I daresay the two of you will become fast friends in coming days."

"Whatever you say," I mumbled, trailing after him. I'm pretty sure that there was some sort of insult in the implication that I would befriend a pony better than another person, but I allowed the comment to slide and, a few moments later, I found myself face to muzzle with a sturdy, little bay dun. Well, actually, my hands were tied to his lead rein, but, hey, what difference does that make? I guessed that's what "Aragorn" meant by becoming "fast friends."

Once the "Ranger" left me in order to aid in erasing all signs of the "Fellowship's" meager camp, I stood at the creature's side and watched the rest of the party gather their belongings and prepare to leave. They neither spoke to me nor did I address them, but I have to say that I nearly jumped for joy when one of the "Hobbits" stooped and picked up my forgotten iPod from the ground.

He fumbled with it for a minute while I looked on uneasily. The thing continued to play, "Hey Jude" audible, even to me across the clearing, and I wondered vaguely who on earth had turned the volume up that high. One thought lead to another and I soon pondered on how the "Hobbits" had gotten their grubby little mitts on the machine in the first place. I didn't know, as the last I'd seen of it was as I tucked it into my backpack and I hadn't seen said backpack since that morning—coincidentally, just before my tumble into Wonderland.

All of a sudden, the pieces snapped into place, and my eyes swept around the clearing in search of a familiar black and teal bag. Finding my pack meant finding my cell phone and, hopefully, a quick escape by means of an emergency call. Sure, it was a half-baked plan, but it was all I had. I'd figure out the details later.

_Well, if all else fails, I can just pelt whoever tries to stop me in the head with it. _I snorted at the image and caused the "Hobbit" who held my iPod to look up. He still messed with it, managing to shuffle through the majority of my song collection and looking more frantic with every track. I decided to take pity on him, seeing as he appeared utterly clueless, by saying, "Bring it here. I'll shut it off." At the offer, he gave me a wary look through narrowed eyes, and I shrugged. "Let it play, then, if you don't believe me. It's up to you." I returned to my search for my backpack, yet a few minutes later, I heard him approach and looked down.__

He stood as far away as he possibly could and extended the machine to me. As soon as I grasped it, he snatched his hand away as though he'd been bitten and scuttled back. I arched an eyebrow, but didn't say anything and went about shutting it off. I struggled with the task for a few minutes due to the ropes around my wrists, but soon the music ceased and, without really thinking about it, I handed the device back over to the "Hobbit." Satisfied, he tucked it carefully into his left breast pocket, and I flashed him an amused smirk when he cast an anxious glance up at me. He flushed guiltily before scurrying off to help his fellows.

I felt eyes upon me then and, turning, I saw that "Aragorn" stood several feet away, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. I realized that was probably the only reason the "Hobbit" had dared come near me and, to be honest, it stung a bit to be treated like a criminal. I mean, even if the little booger was in cahoots with them, I wouldn't have hurt him. I might be pretty crazy at times, but I'm not stupid. Still, I didn't know why their lack of trust perturbed me so much.

Sighing beneath my breath, I put my back to the "Ranger" and pretended to pick burs from Bill's mane. It was a good thing, too, otherwise I would have never spotted the object of my salvation perched atop his back. There, among the canvas sacks and spare blankets, was a very travel-worn Jansport bag.

My heart leapt into my throat, even as I berated myself for not noticing it earlier. _Kel, you're a blind idiot. Well, make that a lucky blind idiot._ If anyone noticed my grin, they said nothing about it and, all too soon, "Aragorn" grasped the pony's reins as the others slipped off into the darkness before us.

"Are you ready, my lady?" he asked while he made sure both my binds and Bill's bridle were secure. "I must warn you that our chosen path will be less than forgiving."

I arched an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that I had a choice in the matter."

Apparently exhausted of my "wit," "Aragorn" sighed. "Let us go then." Thus, the "Fellowship," plus one set out on the long road to "Mordor."


	4. Alice's Dilemma

A Road Less Traveled

Rating: M for violence and cursing.

Disclaimer: It’s really quite simple, you see. I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the people, places, or plots associated with it. I do, however, own Kelly and the plot, insane though it may seem.

***

Have you ever gotten that sinking feeling? You know, that one you get when you suddenly realize that you’ve been horribly wrong about something, but you’re just too blasted prideful to admit it? Yes, well, I had that feeling and, let me assure you, it was not a pleasant sensation.

I had no idea how long we walked in total darkness, but I’m relatively sure that I managed to trip over every piece of debris that happened across my path while I stumbled along behind “Aragorn.” Soon after the start of our trek, it became painfully evident (to my knees and shins, anyway) that I simply was not meant for nocturnal travel. I had settled into a sort of twisted pattern in my bumbling, which went something like the following: Step, trip, swear, step, step, trip, swear, step, and so on. Normally, I’m not quite so inept, but I had yet to completely adjust to the change in my center of gravity caused by my bound hands. Add to that an utter lack of sleep and you can see why I could hardly walk a straight line. As a matter of fact, I was eventually forced to focus my full attention on my feet so as to remain somewhat upright and spare myself any further embarrassment.

And speaking of embarrassment…

Do you have any idea how discomforting it is to find yourself dubbed a “moll” by someone who barely reaches your elbow when standing at his full height?

Yes, my thoughts exactly.

When “Gimli” uttered that word to “Boromir” after yet another spectacular attempt on my part to be a complete smart ass, I nearly kneeled over from the mixture of amusement and mortification that threatened to overwhelm me. In that moment, my face would have, without a doubt, given a beetroot a good run for its money. Needless to say, I refused to meet anyone’s eyes after that particular episode for fear of cracking up all over again.

Of course, my companions didn’t help matters much. In fact, the “Hobbits” were the ones who had started the whole affair in the first place, with their—not so—furtive glances in my direction and whispered conversation. Every once in a while, I’d catch snippets of the exchange shared between the pair in front of me, which, for the most part, involved some sort of remark about my “queer accent” or my “strange garments.”

Okay, so, first off, I’ll admit that I almost certainly have some pronunciation issues. They come with the territory, I’m afraid, when one’s father hails from the South and mother from Massachusetts. Indeed, you can only imagine the sort of vernacular I’ve encountered over the course of my lifetime, but you’d think I came from another planet or something, if you took their word for it.

And don’t even get me started on their commentary about my clothing.

They seemed absolutely scandalized and blushed dreadfully whenever I managed to catch them up in their ill-disguised examinations of my jeans and charcoal Henley. At first, I found it somewhat entertaining and watched them avidly as they glanced back and forth between me and each other before whispering like a pair of giddy schoolgirls. After nearly an hour of similar shenanigans, however, the routine grew tiresome.

To my credit, though, I bore their inane conjectures regarding my attire with a patience that would have made any weary mother proud. Then, though, there came a particularly awkward observation about the “tightness” of my “breeches,” and that’s when the wayward “Dwarf” decided to throw in his two cents and comment on my virtue.

A lesser woman might have been offended by such a remark, and I’ll admit that I still flushed, although it was more out of trying to hold back the bubble of laughter that wiggled its way into my throat than from actual embarrassment. I’m not so insecure as to allow such a trivial thing bother me (I know the truth, after all) but you have to admit that it was the perfect opportunity to goad the “Dwarf.” I mean one shouldn’t try to dish it out if one can’t take it, right? And I certainly couldn’t allow him to get away with such an insult to my person.

So, without missing a beat, I smirked and inquired, “And how, exactly, would you have become familiar with the garb of such women, Master Dwarf?” With the question, the “Hobbits” in front of me dissolved into a fit of snickers, even as they blushed red, and I think I might have even gotten a quiet chuckle out of “Aragorn” for my brashness.

“Indeed, I would have to ask the same thing, my friend,” agreed “Boromir” audaciously as he gave the sputtering “Gimli” a hard thump on the back.

When he’d finally recovered enough from his shock to speak, the “Dwarf” crossed him arms huffily and growled, “I’ll have you know that I am above such degrading… behavior.”

“And yet you know exactly what I’m talking about?” I observed. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have deemed it ‘degrading.’” _Oh, my God, this is turning into a David conversation,_ I reflected wryly. _Well, minus the blatant attempts to grope Liz._ The corner of my mouth tilted up into what I felt sure was a feral grin at the thought and I watched with no small amount of amusement as “Gimli” floundered wildly for a comeback.

His face had taken on a brilliant shade of vermilion beneath the copious amounts of beard, and I mused vaguely on the thought that his blood pressure had likely just shot through the roof. I understand that I should have felt bad for heckling him, considering the fact that, in general, I’m not a vindictive person, yet I just couldn’t bring myself to feel any sort of remorse. After all, if you asked me, the little bugger deserved every insult that I could possibly lob at him and I likely would’ve harassed him until his head exploded from the sheer volume of blood that rushed to his face had “Legolas” not chosen that exact moment to interfere.

He had an uncanny ability to do that, the “Elf.”

“And how would one such as yourself come to know what said behavior entails?” he questioned nonchalantly and every motion in my head came to screeching halt at the sound of his voice. 

The "Elven Prince" had remained mostly silent over the course of the night as he trailed swiftly behind “Gandalf:” Apparently, he preferred to listen to our bickering rather than join it. With his aloof manner came the distinct impression that he considered himself above such base conversation and I found myself scoffing at his “holier-than-thou” attitude. He took himself entirely too seriously, in my humble opinion. 

Even so, I never expected him to intervene. Indeed, his decision to meddle was a bit bewildering--not to mention, a little strange, seeing how he seemed to avoid “Gimli” like the plague--and I wasn’t quite sure how to react to his interference. Well, that is until he voiced his next inquiry.

“Unless you are one who has indulged in it?”

In all honesty, I marveled at how the “Elf” always managed to throw me into complete mental disarray. I’d never met anyone who could unbalance me with such ease and to lose my composure so readily was something to which I was unaccustomed. To be frank, it freaked me out.

By some grace, however, I succeeded in subduing my temper and returned the underlying challenge with an extraordinary serenity--for me, at least. “If I remember correctly, it was my integrity that was called into question,” I reminded him pointedly. “Unnecessarily, I might add, so don’t go butting into things you don't know anything about, ‘Elf.’”

The look I received in response could have been described only as a “cheeky” and I stiffened. I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to like whatever the “Elf” was about to say.

“Perhaps you should heed your own counsel, ‘Mortal,’” he returned lightly.

Now, you know, when I was little, my grandfather always told me that there was great merit in backing down, in being the “bigger person,” and that old saw might very well prove true in many instances. For fear of sounding like an after school special, however, I’ll spare you my elders’ opinion on the matter. Rest assured that I was well aware that I should have just dropped the subject right then and there and saved myself the coming confrontation. Yes, I should have just bitten my tongue, consented defeat, and then retreated to lick my wounds. Alas, I wasn’t the “bigger person” and, true to form, I didn’t slink off with my tail tucked between my legs. Oh, no, I did the exact opposite, and you can probably guess how well that turned out.

“And what about you, ‘Prince?’” I asked slyly, peeking around “Aragorn,” who stared grimly at me over his shoulder in what I imagine was an attempt to silence me. Naturally, I didn’t pay him the least bit of consideration and flounced on, “How do you know what said activity involves? I’d have thought that you’d be above debauchery as well.”

The implication in that statement sent the jeering grin fleeing from the “Elf’s” face and, lips twisting, he shot me a warning scowl before saying, “Tread carefully, girl.”

Despite the voice of reason that fairly screamed at me to shut my mouth and back down, I found myself replying with dripping sarcasm, “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I strike a nerve?”

When “Legolas” turned away with a look of utter disgust at my impertinence, “Aragorn’s” eyes narrowed into a disparaging glance and I shrugged helplessly in return. I’ll confess that, even to my own ears, we sounded childish, squabbling as the “Elf” and I were, but I just couldn’t help it: It’s simply not in my nature to walk away. Besides, if you asked me, “Blondie” needed to be knocked down a few notches and, if I had to act like a five year old to ensure such a debunking, then I would gladly suffer the ignominy. More so, one would think that an “immortal” being such as he would refrain from engaging in paltry quarrels with a girl who was barely one-one hundredth—if that--of his age in the first place. His present behavior really didn’t speak well for his sensibilities.

Nevertheless, I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t leave things where they lie when the “Elf” decided that I wasn’t worth his time. Then again, he didn’t exactly help his plight by turning his back to me: I’ve always been one to fight for the last word in any sort of argument. I fear it’s another one of my more unbecoming qualities as I found myself inexplicably determined to fluster him as badly as he had me.

Therefore, overlooking “Aragorn’s” steely expression, I smiled the most sugary-sweet smile I could summon without puking all over the place and said, “Although, one has to admit that you’d probably be very good at it.”

The scene that followed these words might have been funny had I not known just how badly I pushed the extents of the “Prince’s” patience. Frozen in his tracks, “Legolas” turned to stare at me as though I had just asked him to marry me or something as equally insane. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, torn somewhere between horror and incredulity.

“Oh, yeah,” I confirmed breezily. “Slap a dress on you and we’d make a fortune.” Okay, granted, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel for insults if I’d stooped so low as to call him a “girl” and a trollop at that, but what do you expect? He’d done no less to me with all his man—well, “Elf”—handling, “wench”-calling and such, so I think he deserved a low blow or two.

Or ten…

Regardless, I figured it was fortunate that “Aragorn” remained oblivious to my somewhat skewed logic and stepped in before “Legolas” and I could digress any further into our infantile dispute. Otherwise, I doubt I would have survived the next bout; the “Elf” looked nearly ready to throttle me.

“I believe that is quite enough,” declared the “Ranger,” his voice drowning out whatever it was that “Gimli” planned to add. A pair of hands came to rest upon my shoulders and I took the warning without so much as a twitch, though I was none too pleased about it. As a matter of fact, I would have liked nothing more at that moment than to have slapped that stupid “Elf” upside the head, even as I again felt a strange twinge of pride for having gotten such a strong response from him. “Aragorn,” however, was nothing for it.

And, evidently, neither was “Gandalf.”

“I must agree,” the old man called briskly from the front of the line, and, temporarily distracted from my violent designs, I ripped my gaze away from the seething “Elven Prince” to search out the “Wizard.” It didn’t take long to spot him as he stood some distance ahead and eyed the rest of us with barely contained annoyance. “Cease your squabbles. Now is not the time for them.”

_Well, he’s pissed,_ I noted as I opted, for once, to hold my tongue. _Not exactly what I was shooting for, but I guess it’ll do._

Accepting the subsequent silence for recognition of his demand, “Gandalf” pivoted on his heel and began to walk away. “Come along now,” he beckoned behind him. “We have far to go before dawn.”

I flinched. _Holy_ — _Dawn?! Is he insane?_ I snorted to myself upon casting the “Wizard’s” back a quick glance. Yes. Yes, he is. Defeated and well beyond irked about it, I watched the rest of the party swiftly assume their prior courses. “Legolas” shot me one last furious scowl before he stalked off —yes, _stalked_ like a moody teenager, for goodness’ sake-- after “Boromir” and “Gimli.” The “Hobbits” followed suit, although Bill’s caretaker—“Sam,” I presumed, seeing as he appeared to have a great affinity for the animal--lingered long enough to hand the pony’s reins over to “Aragorn.” The “Ranger” accepted them with a brief nod and then gestured for the “Hobbit” to catch up to his companions.

Suddenly feeling slightly apprehensive, I turned to the “son of Arathorn.” He had that look on his face again, the one that made me want to scuff my feet in the dirt like a naughty kindergartener. I really don’t know how he managed it, but I can say that it perturbed me to no end. Nonetheless, I shook off my nervousness, squared my shoulders, and asked, “What?”

“That was rather uncalled for,” replied “Aragorn,” reaching out to grip Bill’s bridle.

“Oh, well, excuse me,” I spat as outrage flooded my system. “I guess I should have just let the mighty leprechaun get away with calling me a whore?”

I could have sworn the man cringed before he shook his head. “I will agree that Gimli’s words were…distasteful,” he admitted, “but it does little to help your plight to engage in such petty behavior.”

I’m sure the look on my face would have made a gold fish jealous. My lips moved, yet no sound escaped as I gawked up at the man before me: I could hardly believe that he would think to chastise me for defending myself. Of course, it was entirely possible that I could’ve been a bit more judicious in my means of doing so, but, then again, why should I have bothered when the “Dwarf” obviously lacked any sort of tact? I wondered when the tables had turned and I had become the bad guy.

_Wait…I’ve always been the bad guy, haven’t I? Or, to them, in any case._

That particular realization served merely to fuel my resentment and I reclaimed my voice. “Uh, hello! Did you even hear what he said?” I cried, gesturing violently with my clenched hands towards “Gimli’s” fading figure. “I may be many things, but I promise you, that isn’t one of them.” Having made that fact perfectly clear, I whirled around and proceeded to act the part of the nettled female.

The act was entirely too short-lived for my tastes as I soon felt my indignation begin to ebb into hurt. And smart it did, though I loathed to admit it. I mean, I shouldn’t have cared what they said, let alone what they actually thought about me. It shouldn’t have mattered, just like it shouldn’t have mattered whether or not they trusted me.

_But it does,_ whispered that clever, little voice from the back of my mind. _It does because you know that this isn’t just a dream or some bizarre kidnapping…_ It was true, I realized, even as I longed desperately to deny the fact.

All night, I’d watched them, listened to their hushed discussions, and it had slowly become apparent that something was terribly amiss. No matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that all was not right with the world—well, my world, in any case. Somewhere along the way, a seed of doubt had been planted and its vines were slowly strangling whatever hope I’d had that this incident was nothing more than some outrageous fabrication produced within the thralls of my imagination.

Well, actually, that’s not entirely true; I was well aware that it wasn’t a dream. I had dismissed that possibility hours before, when I’d woken to discover myself bound and bleeding beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak tree, and the resulting aches and pains did nothing to belie the idea. Consequently, as my initial theory was thoroughly scrapped, I had no choice but to file my strange scenario under the category of abduction. This hypothesis, however, didn’t really add up, either.

Perhaps it’s a bit morbid on my behalf to have considered it, but, at the onset of our trek, I had pondered long on their reasoning behind having neither killed me nor carried out any of the other things usually associated with kidnapping. Not that I was complaining, of course, even if my more cynical side mused that they merely bided their time.

For some reason, though, that thought didn’t sit well with me, either. There was something about the way they regarded me, in their wary acceptance of my presence that set me on edge. Any sane human being would have been thrilled by their compliancy, yet I found it was even more frightening than the prospect of death for it opened up an entirely new realm of possibilities that my skeptical mind simply did not wish to tackle. I’m sure that I have previously expressed my complete inability to acknowledge the obvious and, therefore, I did the only thing anyone could have done in my position: I pushed the entire matter to the deepest, darkest corner of my conscience. Sadly, it didn’t stay there nearly as long I had hoped it would as I attempted to refocus my attention elsewhere, specifically on the “Hobbits.”

Despite their questionable choice of association, I have to admit that I was rather taken with them. They were the strangest creatures I had ever seen, what with their pudgy faces, curly hair, and huge feet. I’d venture to say it was due to the fact that they were very much like children; extremely curious and somewhat naïve in accordance to their small, child-like statures, and I was positively charmed by their innocence.

And it appeared that they had no less of an affixation on me. They seemed truly fascinated, as though they had never encountered the likes of me in all their days. Now that I think on it, I suppose they never had. They thought me an oddity; something new, strange, and utterly intriguing. But, while they had practically bore holes in me with their staring, they remained highly suspicious and gave me a wide berth, especially the sandy-haired one who had tended Bill for a short while. In fact, he had fairly blanched when “Aragorn” asked him to take the reins while the “Ranger” slipped ahead to speak with “Gandalf.”

Meanwhile, the other three regarded me with varying degrees of caution and I can’t say that I wasn’t put off by their manners. If truth be told, I think it bothered me much more so than any of the other’s treatment of me, even “Legolas’” strange hostility. The “Hobbits” were such jovial beings, it seemed to me, and I found myself wishing for their amity.

_Stop that,_ I ordered myself firmly when that particular desire surfaced. _You’re tired and not thinking clearly. These people are not your friends. Don't you dare trust them. They tied you up, left you to freeze in the dark, and, now, they’re dragging you to God only knows where. I doubt that constitutes as “friendly” conduct._

So busy slating myself was I that I didn’t even notice that “Aragorn” had stepped up to me until his hands came to rest on my shoulders once more, and, startled, I snapped my head up to meet his gaze.

“I know very well that you are no such thing,” he assured gently, “but you mustn’t allow yourself to be baited.”

Annoyed with both him and myself, I cast my eyes down and grumbled, “Whatever. I’m really not in the mood to argue about it.” I felt bad enough as it was, what with the ominous knot that wound itself in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t need his sympathy and I certainly didn’t want it.

“But, be that as it may,” he continued, giving my shoulders a slight squeeze to draw my gaze back to his. “I beseech you: please, my lady, take my previous warnings to heart and reign in your temper. The night is young and we have far yet to travel. Discontent among us will serve only to make the journey that much more trying.”

His pleading did little to alleviate my bad-humor as I pulled from his grasp and said, “Oh, alright, I’ll keep my mouth shut.” “Aragorn,” for his part, didn’t look the least bit convinced and even I knew that I sounded about as sincere as a wizened politician. Still, I forced an unassuming smile to my lips and added, “Promise.”

The man’s expression didn’t change, even as he nodded and replied, “I will hold you to your word, then, my lady.”

“I’m sure you will,” I sighed, all at once feeling terribly drained.

“Aragorn” said nothing further on the subject while apparently trusting me to keep to my pledge, and instead, took up Bill’s reins. “Come, my lady, lest the others leave us behind.”

I couldn’t resist one last barb and, rolling my eyes at his back, I mumbled, “And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

“Indeed not,” answered “Aragorn,” his voice taking on an almost droll tone as he peered at me from over his shoulder.

I arched an eyebrow in response. Honestly, I don’t know which irritated me more; his ability to reprimand me with a mere glance or his amusement afterwards. At any rate, I found nothing particularly humorous about the present moment and, scowling fiercely, I snapped, “Oh, very funny. Now, let’s go before your cohorts send a search party.”

Chuckling, “Aragorn” gave Bill’s reins a gentle tug and moved off after the rest of the “Fellowship.”

Thus, the night wore on without further incident and the moon was midway in its journey across the darkened sky by the time the others began to show signs of fatigue. The only one among us who seemed even remotely alert was “Legolas,” who flitted in and out of the shadows like a ghost. At times, he disappeared from sight all together, only to remerge in a swath of watery moonlight, and I found myself watching him in reluctant admiration. Seriously, it was almost sickening to watch him move: no one has any right to be that graceful.

As for the remainder of the company, “Boromir” and “Gimli” trudged forward on what looked to be their last legs while the “Hobbits” stumbled along in front of “Aragorn” and me. They were clearly exhausted from trying to keep up the swift pace that “Gandalf” set and, on more than one occasion, the “Ranger” and I found ourselves nearly tripping over one of them as he paused for rest. It was rather tiresome, but I have to admit that I kind of felt sorry for the little guys.

Of course, I can’t say that I fared much better. I was running on fumes, as they say, after having gotten perhaps only half an hour of sleep since the night prior, and I can’t say that sneakers are appropriate for long-distance foot travel through the wilderness. Truthfully, I think it was my pride (or maybe it was just spite) that kept me from collapsing into an ungainly heap right there in the middle of the path. And it was that same pride that kept me from mentioning the fact that I was starving—the granola bar I’d grabbed on the way out the front door that morning had long worn off—and that I’d needed to go the bathroom for the last two hours. So, yes, as you’ve probably already deduced, I was absolutely miserable, but I’d be damned before I admitted my discomfort to anyone, especially that last bit of information.

Thankfully, “Aragorn” was more observant than I gave him credit for and, when I yawned for the third time within a span of five minutes, he turned back to me to say, “The moon wanes. We shall stop soon.”

“Good,” was all I murmured as I ducked my head to stifle another yawn. My brain had been on autopilot for the last hour or so, so I didn’t even bother with trying to be clever. In fact, I’d hardly spoken at all since the “moll” fiasco and it was my lack of response that prompted “Aragorn” to inquire on my health.

“Are you well?” he questioned, slowing to walk beside Bill rather than in front of him. “You have been unusually quiet.”

“I’m fine,” I answered, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to rouse myself into a more conscious state. “Although I have to say I’d much rather be in bed right about now.”

“Aragorn” nodded before lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “As would I, my lady.” I grunted an affirmative, which drew a faint grin from my companion, who then said, “Your mannerisms are very strange.”

“Or so you think,” I replied absently. Under normal circumstances, that comment would have easily earned him a sharp response or, at the very least, an uplifted eyebrow. I didn’t so much as toss him a sideways glance. _Damn, I must be tired, if I let that one slide._

Much to my vexation, the “Ranger” mistook my muttered answer for an offer to converse—or, rather, to initiate a round of twenty questions. “Forgive me, but might I inquire your name?”

“What?” I asked, turning my head to look at him. _Well, that was totally random._

“Your name, my lady? I would ask you for it,” he pressed.

“Would you?” I returned without considering the wrangle it would likely start. What can I say? Sarcasm is such a natural inclination for me that I seldom have to consider using it; most of the time the words just come out, even when I’m half-asleep. “And if I don’t wish to give it? You lot haven’t exactly been forthcoming with yours, you know.”

Indeed, they had been very careful in using their names around me. Most of the time, they simply addressed one another by “Master” and whatever name designated their assumed species or title. “Gimli” was “Master Dwarf” and the “Hobbits” were singularly addressed as “Master Hobbit,” whereas “Boromir” was called the “Lord Steward.” “Gandalf,” meanwhile, was simply “Gandalf” as “Legolas” was “Legolas”—or “Master Elf,” in “Gimli’s” case—and they were the only ones whose names I truly knew.

More often than not, however, they abstained from speaking to or around me altogether. Not that it really mattered, of course; as you well know, I had already deduced most of their supposed identities, but it would’ve been better to know for sure who they claimed to be. Truthfully, I was more curious than anything. I really just wanted to see if I was correct in my assumptions. Likewise, I wagered that there was no way I could weasel their true, non-Tolkien names out of them anyway, so I’d settle for the next best thing.

“I should have presumed you would prove to be difficult,” “Aragorn” sighed and I grinned. “A trade, then? My name in exchange for yours?”

“Maybe,” I consented.

“Very well, then. I am called Strider.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I answered immediately with the straightest face I could attain. “I am…so not buying that crap.”

There was a second of confused silence. “Pardon?” he ventured, startled.

“Oh, please,” I began, rolling my eyes. “I know for a fact that there’s no way that’s your real name. No one in their right mind would name their son ‘Strider’—well, unless they were on a lot of drugs at the time.” At this point, I would have crossed my arms had I been able to do so. “So, now, why don’t you spare me the _nom de guarres_ and give me your real name? It’ll make things so much easier.”

The “Ranger” studied me for a few long minutes, as though weighing his options, and then frowned. “Perhaps it would be best that you do not press your fortune so? Or my good will, for that matter? I owe you no such courtesy.”

“Perhaps,” I said with a vague shrug, “but you won’t have my name until I have yours. It’s only fair.” _Two can play this game, pal._

Now, any normal person probably would have cursed me in frustration for my sheer stubbornness, but “Aragorn,” I had long decided, was not a “normal person,” and, displaying the same grave bearing he did in all things, he inclined his head to me. He knew I wouldn’t yield until he did and, apparently, revealing his given name just wasn’t worth the effort of trying to wear me down.

“As you wish, my lady,” he assented. “Keep your identity your own.”

“I’ll do that.” That said, no further words were shared and we settled back into our former frame of silence.

The next hour passed under the sway of that same exhausted hush. It was rough going through the thick undergrowth as I struggled to keep pace with “Aragorn.” I failed splendidly, I might add, considering the man was well over six feet tall, a sharp contrast to my measly five four. In my less than alert state, I quickly settled back into the routine of tripping over my own feet and, from time to time “Aragorn” glanced back to make sure I hadn’t managed to break a leg or something with my floundering about. I must admit that after my first few greetings with the ground, I became exceedingly grateful that he remained at my side. Whether he knew it or not, he was the only thing that kept me going in those last few hours, either through his hefting me bodily from the ground or simply through his constant presence.

“Only a little while longer,” he murmured in my ear after a particularly nasty tumble in which I'd ended up flat on my face. I hadn’t moved, only lain there, shivering from cold and swearing under my breath, until the man literally hauled me to my feet, and I didn’t refuse when he draped a spare blanket over my shoulders. I felt wretched after that, though: My conscience would allow nothing less. It seemed that my better manners were finally catching up with me.

After all, “Aragorn” had been kind to me. He had treated me like a person rather than a zoo exhibit--or, worse yet, like trash--and I’d made myself a complete nuisance in return. I’d abused him, sworn at him, insulted him, and who knows what else, and he had put up with it, even helped me when any other would have simply left me to die. 

_You were raised better than that, Kelly Elaine, and you know it._ The aforementioned conscience nagged, and I completely agreed. _Good grief, it's no wonder “Legolas” calls me “wench” all the time. That's actually putting it lightly._

Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but blame my companions for my current distress. I had asked that they release me and they had refused. Then, they'd tied me up, dragged me away against my will, and I was totally drained as a result. My body ached from our almost continuous marching as well as a distinct lack of sleep. Not only that, my bladder felt as though it might burst at any second and my stomach sounded like it had taken to trying to devour my backbone. In all, I was pushing the extent of my limits and I knew that I wasn’t going to hold out much longer--let alone until dawn. For all my stubbornness, temper, and cynicism, I’m only human in the end.

_Maybe this is how they plan to kill me?_ I mused with sudden derision. _I can see it now, front page of Wednesday’s paper: Missing university student’s body found! Kelly Day, 25, appears to have died as a result of an exploding bladder. Oh, that’s rich…_ My thoughts continued along this same path for the next little while, each more sarcastic than the last, and it was amazing how well they also served to spur me onward. They worked so well, in fact, that I scarcely noticed when “Aragorn” stopped a few paces in front of me. 

“What the--” I cried sharply as I all but slammed into his back. “Watch what you’re doing!”

Dismissing my irritable shout, the “Ranger” turned and said, “Gandalf has called for rest.” Whatever retort I’d been about to fire back died a hurried death with his explanation.

I could’ve kissed him.

Instead, however, I settled for gripping his arm and exclaimed, “Oh, thank God!” Glancing down at the fingers twisted in his cloak, the “Ranger” appeared a bit surprised by my sudden familiarity. Coming abruptly to my senses, I flushed and immediately released him. He might have smiled but I turned away too quickly to know for sure.

_I really need to stop being so impulsive. They might get the wrong idea._ I gave a mental snort. _Well, an idea worse than the ones they already have._ Directing my focus to “Aragorn” before I grew cross all over again, I arched an inquiring eyebrow upon catching his searching look.

“I must assist Legolas in finding a place to bed down for the day,” he explained calmly. “I assume I may trust you to behave yourself without my guidance.” I was too worn-out to be indignant and a weary “sure” was all I murmured in assurance. The “Ranger’s” eyes lingered on my face for a moment longer before he nodded once and slipped away to join the waiting “Elf.”

Sighing, I tugged the blanket tighter around my shuddering frame as I watched them leave. Bill nudged at my shoulder, his warm breath ruffling the hair that had escaped the binds of my ponytail, and I lifted my hands to rub his muzzle. I felt that it was the least I could do: The poor beast probably had whiplash from all the times I’d yanked his head down when I'd tripped.

Behind me, there was a ripple of whispered conversation. I listened with only half an ear, my fingers threading their way through Bill’s shaggy mane while the “Hobbits” discussed mundane things like the weather, supper, and the ale at the Green Dragon. I recall thinking that it didn’t really strike me as strange that they spoke of such things. I’d become oddly passive over the last couple of hours as I began to accept the idea that I was an unwilling part of whatever twisted game they played. I chalked it up to sheer exhaustion because I know that had I been able to think clearly there was absolutely no way I would have taken that acceptation quietly.

Dawn approached: The sky swiftly faded from a deep purple to pale gray as the sun began its daily journey. I stood in silence for several minutes, adrift in my own little world as the night died, before Bill decided to make his presence known once more and tugged roughly at his reigns.

Startled from my reverie, I looked over my shoulder at the beast and asked, “What?” The pony merely snorted and tugged again. “Oh, alright then, lead on.” 

For lack of anything better to do, I allowed myself to be led to the edge of the low ridge where Bill immediately indulged in what looked to be the last few blades of grass left behind in winter’s path. “I should’ve known it was food.” The creature cast me what could have only been considered the equine version of a glare prior to tucking in.

I chuckled to myself and took a step back so as to give him more access to the greenery. Yet, in my infinite grace, I managed to stumble over a loose stone and nearly crashed rear-first into the thick, thorny branches of a small tree. 

Hissing in pain from straining already sore muscles, I steadied myself just before I could get up close and personal with the local vegetation. “Damn bush,” I grumbled and glowered at the offending plant as I dusted myself off as best I could while hoping that no one had caught sight of that little mishap.

Just because they hadn’t seen me fall on my ass a million times already, you know…

Even so, I think it was a sort of guileless curiosity that made me take a closer look at my newest assailant and, hence, receive what would probably qualify as the greatest shock of my life. Well, okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. It was actually what occurred after I began my examinations of the flora that threw me for a loop.

In the pale light of the early morning, I spied the dark green of waxy leaves and grayish branches along with splotches of bright scarlet. Berries, I concluded after a second of study, and a quick glance around revealed that the ridge was covered with similar trees, their gnarled trunks seeming to emerge from the stone at every turn.

Now, I don’t consider myself botanically savvy in the least, but I do know some plants when I see them, and there was only one that I knew that bore such leaves and seeds, though I couldn’t recall having ever actually seen it without the yuletide additions of eggnog and a jolly fat man in a red suit.

Eyes narrowing, I reached out to brush my fingertips across the spiny leaves and murmured, “Holly?”

I hadn’t expected an answer to the inquiry and I nearly had a heart attack when “Gandalf” spoke up from beside me. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “We have reached the boundary of the land Men call Hollin.” He extended a hand to retrace my finger’s path along the leaf as he went on, “Elves once lived here--before the rise of Shadow. It was then that this place was known as _Eregion,_ the “Land of Holly,” in the High Elven tongue.”

“Appropriate,” I replied weakly as “Gandalf’s” reply struck an odd chord within me and the sinking feeling returned full-force. A lump rose suddenly in my throat and I swallowed harshly. _I've hiked through these woods a hundred times with Liz and Brandon. Holly doesn't grow here. Or, at least, not like this…_

“Yes,” the old man continued, unaware of my discomfort. “Five-and-forty leagues we have traveled thus far. The land and weather will be milder now, yet dangerous still. We must watch ourselves all the more for the change as from here we must turn towards the mountains and Caradhas.”

“Mountains?” One of the “Hobbits” voiced the question. “But the mountains are ahead of us. That means we must have turned eastwards during the night.”

“Gandalf” made no reply; he was, instead, watching me as I struggled to draw air into my lungs. I must have gone pale for the “Wizard” leaned closer to me and asked, “Are you quite alright, my dear?”

I ignored him as an overwhelming sense of dread crashed over me like a great wave. A shiver traced its way down my spine and I closed my eyes, my heart thudding in my chest. I could hear my companions speaking to me, asking me if I was alright or if I felt ill, yet their words fell on deaf ears as I turned slowly on my heel and raised my gaze to the distant horizon, hoping against all hope that I didn’t see what I thought I was going to see.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be.

Away in the south, I caught sight of great, looming shapes in the clear light of the sunrise.

_Well, I’ll be damned,_ was my last coherent thought before I did what any sane human being in my situation would have done and fainted.


	5. Gravity

A Road Less Traveled

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the characters, places, or situations affiliated with it. They are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien, and I assure you that I am still the poor, half-starved art student that I’ve always been.

***

The ground is a very unforgiving thing.

Oh, sure, it looks harmless enough with its downtrodden grass and squishy soil, but I assure you, my friends, that it is anything but innocent. No, rather, it’s very much like your current beau’s ex: cold, merciless, and just waiting for the chance to slap an enormous hurt on your unsuspecting backside.

Or crack your skull.

Whichever catches her fancy, I suppose.

The sun had risen well above the horizon by the time I returned to full awareness. Immediately upon waking, I became aware of two things: The first being that I lay flat on my back on something soft while the second was the throbbing pain that centered at the back of my head and spread in rigid tendrils throughout my entire body. For a few minutes, I simply laid there and stared at the late morning sky, all the while trying to sort through the mass of cobwebs that had enveloped my brain. That endeavor proved a totally fruitless venture, I’ll confess, considering the fact that said brain felt like mush.

 _God…my head is killing me,_ was the lone thought that succeeded in slipping through the painful haze and I barely managed to stifle the groan that rose to my lips. My pounding cranium, however, was the least of my troubles, I realized, as the fog slowly began to recede. Still quite groggy from what must have been a long foray into unconsciousness, I struggled to make sense of the scattered mess that was my mind, but I soon abandoned the battle for cognitive order, seeing as it only amplified the pressure between my temples to titanic proportions. Biting back another moan, I allowed my eyelids to fall shut once more.

The air around me was quiet; the faint chirp of birds and the gentle rustling of a breeze through the bare branches of the trees overhead were the only sounds to be heard. At length, I noticed that a heavy woolen blanket had been drawn up to my shoulders: Its weight provided a pleasant warmth while the hard earth beneath me had been gentled by means of a fur-lined cloak atop what was likely a spare bedroll.

On the whole, I was rather comfortable. Or, at least, as comfortable as I possibly could be, in light of my present state, and the exhaustion that had weighed on me since the previous night soon began to settle over me. In all honesty, at that point, I wanted nothing more than to return to slumber—voluntarily this time, of course.

 _Yes, a nap is certainly in order,_ I thought as I blinked blearily. I mean, the world could wait for a few hours or, at least, until I was ready to deal with it, right?

Right?

Oh, whatever: My life was never so simple. Or accommodating, for that matter, and, thanks to my newfound company, that particular moment was no exception.

“…so very young. I worry for her.”

“Aragorn’s” voice, coupled with the sound of footsteps, instantly hurled me back into full wakefulness as the brume of sleep dissipated in a heady rush. I could have screamed, irritated as I was with the disturbance, yet I managed to restrain myself and, instead, focused my energies on the hushed conversation taking place between a pensive “Ranger” and his “Elven” cohort. There was little doubt that the affair would prove interesting. Things involving these guys usually did.

“Estel, you know nothing of the girl. She could very well be in league with the enemy." “Legolas’” reply came in a low, fierce tone that would have sent me into a raging fit had I not been so bloody sore and, not to mention, supposedly unconscious. Seriously, it was all I could do to remain silent and still.

 _Why that little…! What’s does he think he’s doing, accusing me of--whoa….wait…_ Taken aback by the sudden flare of resentment prompted by the charge, I broke off the mental tirade. _What are you getting all riled up about? Just chill out, girl. Let it go._ Releasing a soundless breath, I allowed my tense limbs to slacken. After all, it wouldn’t do to fly off the handle and throttle one of them, now would it?

“Nay, my friend, she is no enemy,” replied the “son of Arathorn.” “She is impetuous, perhaps, and temperamental, but she is no spy.” Here there was a thoughtful pause. “You are right, of course, that I know nothing of her, yet I sense no darkness in her heart.”

Needless to say, my ire evaporated with that observation, only to be replaced by absolute befuddlement. _What on earth is that supposed to mean?_

“I fear the wisdom in handing her your trust, _mellon nîn._ It may prove your end,” “Legolas” warned. “Do not lose sight of what our fellowship set out to accomplish simply for the girl’s sake.” There was another short lull following the “Elf’s” words. This one, on the other hand, lacked the former’s amiability and the sudden tension in the air made me crack an eye open to stare at the pair across the clearing.

They had settled themselves on a brace of stones some ten feet away from my resting place. “Legolas,” though, had risen and now stood before the “Ranger” with his intense gaze fixed upon the man in earnest. “Aragorn” himself remained seated, his hands draped across his knees and a strange expression on his rugged face. If anything, I could have sworn he looked angry.

My suspicions were swiftly confirmed, and I was startled by the stark change in the “Ranger’s” demeanor when he gave his response. “You needn’t worry, Legolas,” he assured his companion edgily. “I am well aware what is expected of me and of our company.” A weighted silence fell between them then, and I found myself torn between interfering in an attempt to diffuse the conflict and just allowing them to have it out. I decided against any action whatsoever when the “Elf” released a soft sigh.

“I apologize, my friend,” he said, although it was safe to say that he was obviously far from thrilled about his comrade’s regard for strangers. “I should accept your judgment.” And that was all he said before he, his back rigid and eyes clouded, turned to leave.

Apparently unsettled by the “Elf’s” reaction, “Aragorn” sprang from his stone, one hand extended in entreaty. “Legolas!” he cried. “Please, my dear friend, wait a moment!”

He sounded so strained, so very worn, that it was I could do to keep my shame at bay. There he stood, pleading on my behalf when, in actual fact, I had done nothing to deserve his adherence or his faith. If anything, he should have agreed with “Legolas,” but, instead, the man was trying to convince him of my credibility. Even to me, there seemed something terribly amiss about this scene and I felt all the worse for it.

From my place on the ground, I saw the “Ranger” step forward to clasp the “Elven Prince’s” shoulder.

“I know well how you feel about the girl,” he began, “and I would have her tender you proper respect, but I must ask that you have patience with her. She is young and in need of guidance. Do not cast her so readily aside.” When “Legolas” made no move to speak, “Aragorn” allowed his hand to fall from the “Elf’s” shoulder. Unable to watch them any longer, I closed my eyes. 

Neither said anything for a few long minutes until the “Prince” finally breached the quiet. “I will think on it, my friend,” he conceded, “but she must first learn to hold her tongue,” There was yet another break in conversation and, in the stillness, I heard the approach of eerily light footsteps from my right. They came to a halt a few feet from my prone form as he added, “and perhaps to refrain from eavesdropping.”

My eyes snapped open just in time to see the “Legolas” pivot on his heel and walk away. _How did he know….oh, never mind, I don’t care. He’s an ass._ I decided fleetingly before I slowly pushed myself up on my elbows. Unfortunately, any other semblance of deliberation was lost when every muscle in my body screamed in protest at the movement.

Hissing, I would have collapsed all together had a pair of hands not suddenly slipped beneath my shoulder blades and helped me ease into an upright position. “Aragorn’s” deep voice washed over me as I struggled to regain the breath that had been momentarily ripped from my lungs. “Do not push yourself, my lady. You need to rest.”

“I’m…fine,” I panted, even as the fire in my limbs begged to differ. “Just a…little sore.” The “Ranger” merely snorted, a strange sound coming from the lips of someone who always seemed so dignified, and began to prod at the back of my head. When his fingers came into contact with a rather sensitive spot, I gasped and jerked away. “Watch it!”

“My apologies, my lady,” he replied. “I was merely checking the swelling.” I flinched as he pressed upon what I could tell was one heck of a goose egg.

“’Swelling?’” I echoed. “What happened?” Without thinking, I reached up and touched the area myself, only to find that a knot roughly the size of a golf ball had taken up temporary residence just to the side of my right ear.

“You swooned,” the gray-eyed man recounted, “not long before Legolas and I returned. I must say that Gandalf became quite concerned when you did not respond to his callings, and the others were little better.” A dry smile tugged at his lips. “The Hobbits thought sure you had died.”

I gave a snort of my own— _Swooned? Honestly, man, I know you’re supposed to be all “medieval” and everything, but couldn’t you have come up with another word?_ \--but offered no response as I turned over that last bit of information in my mind.

 _They were worried about me? Hmm...Why?_ I mused. Indeed, what could have possibly possessed them to fret over me as “Aragorn” described? I mean, I was neither friend nor ally: Actually, they seemed more apt to avoid me than anything else. Even now, the others were nowhere to be found and that fact bothered me far more than I would care to admit. Frankly, I was at a loss: The entire matter was simply beyond my haggard brain at that moment. I really just wanted to lie back down, sleep, and never again dwell on the mystery that was the so-called “Fellowship of the Ring.”

Regrettably, rest was yet another concept beyond execution by that point in time and, with a groan, I raised a hand to rub my stinging eyes. The movement, however, brought something else to my notice as the appendage dropped back into my lap. “You untied me?” I asked in subdued wonder before lifting both arms to examine my wrists.

“Aragorn,” who had since made his way over to a bundle that sat on the ground a few feet away, spared me a quick glance. “Yes,” he answered firmly. “You have endured enough as it is.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with that response, so I chose to disregard it and, instead, asked, “And your friends just let you? I find that hard to believe.”

“They had little choice in the matter,” said the “Ranger” as he rose from his crouch. “Gandalf asked that you be released.” Returning, he took a seat at my side and extended what looked like a flask to me. Somewhat unsure of what he wanted, I stared at the object in his hand for a moment prior to accepting it. The swish of something liquid immediately caught my ears and I shot the “Ranger” a questioning glance. “Drink,” he ordered gently. “You sorely need it.” Hesitant, I watched him for a few seconds longer and then redirected my attention to the object in my grasp.

The cask was made of some kind of animal hide, I noted studiously as I turned it over in my hands, and was sealed with what appeared to be leather-bound cork. Fiddling with the stopper briefly, I lifted the container to my nose, and “Aragorn” gave me a very peculiar look when I sniffed at the contents. Catching his gaze from the corner of my eye, I arched an eyebrow and asked, “What?”

He said nothing for a moment. Then, “Are you truly so suspicious of my actions? Have I not proven my intent?” Lowering the flask, I blinked slowly before turning my head to look at the man kneeling beside me.

Pale, sea-gray eyes stared back and I felt that sickening twinge which accompanies guilt as I looked into his weathered face. His expression, an odd mixture of sadness, annoyance, and disappointment, tore at my conscience, and it was all I could do to meet his gaze. Really, the man had gone out of his way to help me and all I’d done in return was shove his compassion back in his face.

 _Christ, I’m such a hag,_ I berated myself, and the tightness in my chest seemed to clinch as those sorrowful eyes continued to bore into mine. All of a sudden, something snapped and I was on my feet, all my various aches and pains forgotten. “I’m sorry…” was all I could force beyond the lump in my throat. “…so sorry.” And, with that last choked whisper, I fled.

The forest rushed by me; the trees were merely dark blurs in my peripheral vision as I tore through the brushwood. Distantly, I heard “Aragorn” shout for me to return, but I disregarded his cries in favor of a breakneck sprint. Even long after the “Ranger’s” shouts were lost amid the trees, I raced on with reckless abandon.

All too soon, however, my reduced condition began to catch up with me. My lungs burned and I cursed my own weakness—both the physical and emotional--while I stumbled along. Finally, my body could no longer handle the strain and my legs gave way beneath me, sending me sprawling harshly to the cold earth.

“Damn it,” I hissed through clenched teeth as I slowly pushed myself to my hands and knees. My breath came in ragged gasps, an abrasive sound against the stillness of the wood, and, despite my desire to suppress them, I felt l the sting of tears build in the corners of my eyes. I knew that I couldn’t hope to stem the flow this time and, when the first warm droplet left a trail down my right cheek, it felt as though a dam had broken, and I found myself trembling with the force of the tide. 

Who knows how long I remained there on the cold ground, shaking like a leaf, while tears streamed down my face. I was aware of little else, except my own misery, and the grief was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was in that very moment that I knew. I knew that I could no longer deny it; no longer deny what had been staring me in the face all along. It was impossible, inconceivable and, yet, there I was, on my knees, my palms pressing into cool dirt as I dropped my head and prayed for all that I was worth that the I was just hallucinating. 

_Please…Please, just let it be a dream...._

But it wasn’t a dream.

My hands shook so badly that I was forced to clench my fingers in order to stall the tremors and I didn’t dare lift my eyes. For I knew what I would see: Winter-barren trees wreathed in weak winter sunlight, the thought of which made me want to do nothing more than to shut down completely, to curl up into a little ball and hide from the world. I didn’t want to see the clear blue of the sky or hear the calls of birds in the branches overhead or inhale the rich aroma of loam with each breath I drew. Every little sound, sight, and scent served merely to remind me that I was truly awake, alive, and in way over my head.

 _How is it possible?_ That question replayed itself over and over in my mind countless times. _How? How can it be? Middle-earth doesn’t exist. Hobbits aren’t real and neither are Elves or Dwarves or Dúnedain. Or Wizards, for that matter._ I swallowed weakly. _But those mountains and…and the holly. They were real, weren’t they?_

From there, my thoughts began to ramble, but I’ll admit that I wasn’t exactly in the most stable frame of mind at that point. In all, I was the epitome of the term “basket case.” _You know, I really think I’ve finally lost my mind. There’s no other way to explain this._ In spite of the despair that left my eyes overly damp and bloodshot, I gave a strangled laugh. _Listen to yourself, Kel, you sound like such a spaz, whining and crying around like this._

Then I paused, all hilarity lost as some other thought, unbidden and indescribably galling, surfaced.

 _No! No, not a spaz. Like a little girl. You sound like a scared little girl…_ Sitting back abruptly as my hands curled into fists, I felt the first tendrils of anger begin to seep into my veins. If there is one thing in this world—or any world, for that matter—that I loathed above all else, it’s being referred to as a child—a little girl, even by my own psyche. Granted, I’d allowed “Gandalf” to get away with calling me “child” numerous times, but I mean, come on; the man was likely old enough to be my grandfather twelve times over. I think I could afford the concession.

Smirking slightly, I felt my fingernails begin to dig into my flesh. _Get it together, Kel. Buck up, now._ With that silent command, I bade myself to take several deep breaths to regain my composure. I pulled it off surprisingly well, considering that I’d been a veritable train wreck five minutes prior.

It was a good thing, too, given that my impromptu solitude neared its end.

“…blasted woman!” “Boromir’s” shout erupted from somewhere behind me. Judging from the sheer volume, I knew he couldn’t be far away, and, of course, where he lurked there were sure to be others. “Where in Eru’s name is she?” At his exclamation, I rolled my eyes heavenward, the act a combination of both amusement and irritation.

“She could not have gotten far.” This statement came from a harried-sounding “Legolas.” “Not in her condition. She could scarcely sit up.”

I didn’t even bother to try to stop the bark of ironic laughter that escaped my throat. Given his tone, one might have thought the “Elf” was actually concerned for my wellbeing. _Careful there, “Legolas.” Someone might think you actually give a damn._

“And that is precisely the reason why we must find her as swiftly as possible,” “Aragorn’s” urgent voice found my ears. “The servants of the Enemy will make easy prey of her should she remain alone.”

A petulant snort erupted in the wake of this statement. “I say we let them have her. Nothing but trouble, that girl,” rumbled “Gimli.”

Shaking my head, I sighed and cast a glance over my shoulder toward the racket of snapping branches and muttered curses before I turned to peer into the shadows of the denser wood beyond. _An impasse, then,_ I mused. Indecision began to gnaw at me as I listened to the men draw ever closer to the clearing. I still had time. I could still escape, if I truly wished to do so.

But did I? Did I honestly wish to escape from them, those who could provide relative security if they were actually who they claimed to be? Escaping would mean that I’d have to face the wilds alone, and, in my opinion, that idea was a far from pleasant prospect. At least, with “Aragorn” around I could be assured that there would be someone there to watch out for me and who seemed to give a flit whether I lived or died.

_Ah, Hell, I guess I don’t have a choice._

I heaved another sigh, this one full of resignation for my plight. I knew what I had to do and, so, lifting my head, I closed my eyes and called out, “You’re right, Legs. I didn’t get far.” The voices and shuffling around in the bushes came to an abrupt halt before a loud curse in Dwarvish exploded from the trees to my left. Seconds later, four anxious males burst into the clearing where I’d taken refuge.

No one said anything at first and I could sense the group’s wary scrutiny, even though I didn’t bother to return it. Despite my decision to remain, I wasn’t quite ready to face them yet.

The quiet, however, quickly grew oppressive and it was “Aragorn” who, eventually, ventured to speak. “My lady,” he began and I heard him step towards me. I remained as I was, my back facing them and my eyes half-lidded as I peered through breaks in the twisted branches above. “Thank the heavens we’ve found you.” He paused momentarily and I knew he was checking me over in case of injury. “Are you well?”

 _What sort of question is that? Of course, I’m not well, you moron. I’m in a freaking book, for God’s sake._ I ignored that particular line of thought and allowed a small smile to lift the corners of my lips as I said, “Honestly, I have no idea.”

There was another stretch of silence, this one plagued by a collective sense of confusion and only broken when “Gimli” growled, “What’d you mean, lass, ‘you have no idea?’ Surely, you must know if you’re for good or ill.” Amused for some reason beyond my comprehension, I chuckled weakly and brought a hand up to brush through my mused hair as I, at last, turned to face them.

It was in that very moment, without any distractions and my head relatively clear, that I saw them for what—no, for who they really were.

Bearing a worn countenance that spoke of a long life riddled with callous trials and only more to come, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain stood just behind me. He was called Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he was the heir to the throne of Men. A few feet away, a hand resting on the pommel of his sword, lingered his kinsman, the Steward’s son of the line of Húrin of Emyn Arnen, Boromir; and in his company were Gimli, Gloin’s son, a lord of the Lonely Mountain, as well as Legolas Thranduilion, the Prince of Greenwood the Great. These men were lords, leaders of their respective peoples, and I suddenly felt very, very insignificant in comparison.

For a long time, I could only stare at them, my eyes traveling from one face to the next until, at last, they settled upon the Ranger’s.

With no small amount of worry, Aragorn watched me. Astutely, I took instant notice of his rigid posture and the tense manner in which he held his hands at his sides. He looked as though he expected me to bolt at any second. Believe me, the idea had crossed my mind more than once over the course of the last few minutes, even though I stayed where I was and tried to appear as nonchalant as possible.

“You can relax now, Strider. I’m not going to run,” I tried to put him at ease prior to turning my back to him and his companions and shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Almost as an afterthought, I added, “I’ve nowhere to go.”

"My lady?” inquired Aragorn.

Still staring into the trees, I remarked, “You shouldn’t call me that, you know. I’m no lady.” I cast a disdainful glance in the direction of the Elf, Dwarf, and Man who stood at the edge of the glade. “I think your friends can attest to that.”

“Come now,” Arathorn’s son continued as if I’d never spoken, “let us return to camp. You need to rest.” That said, he closed the distance between us as his hand came to rest on my shoulder.

I jerked, but didn’t pull from his grasp, choosing instead to lower my head and release a heavy breath. “How can you be so kind to me?” I whispered and I could have cringed at how dejected I sounded. “How? When all I’ve done is insult you?”

The Ranger gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze and replied, “Your words were not taken to heart, my lady.”

“You don’t know me,” I refuted quietly, plainly recalling his disagreement with Legolas. “You don’t know who I am or where I came from. What I’m capable of. How’d you know I’m not ‘in league with the enemy’ like the Elf said?” I shot him a sharp glance. “You shouldn’t be so quick to trust me.”

“Perhaps so,” he acquiesced as he allowed his hand to drop to his side. He gave a pause and, although I couldn’t see his face, I could almost picture the thoughtful frown that I was sure set his lips. “As for loyalties, I should imagine that a servant of the Dark would ply for allegiance, for a place among our fellowship, and to gain our favor as quickly as possible. I believe that you lack the subtlety required for such things.”

You know, if I had not known that his theory was so utterly true, I might have gotten terribly angry with Aragorn for that particular observation. But then again, even I know that I’m far too forthright and reckless to ever hope to pull off any sort of espionage. It’s simply not in my nature to be conniving: Clever, perhaps, but not manipulative.

“Gee, thanks,” I groused, yet the comment lacked any true derision.

“I meant no offense, my lady,” the Ranger was swift to amend.

“None taken,” I said, shrugging absently. “I know how I am, and I’ll admit that subtlety was never my strong suit.” Eyeing him shrewdly over my shoulder, I crossed my arms. “Even so, I find it a little hard to swallow that you would just welcome a total stranger into your merry little band.”

You know, I have to say that I think I was really beginning to grate on Aragorn’s nerves because he sounded mildly exasperated when he said, “A stranger, yes, but, as I stated before, I do not think you an enemy. Why do you not simply accept our aid and leave the matter be?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” I snapped, much more harshly than I intended. At his startled expression, I reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose, a habit that I had long since indulged in whenever I was frustrated, and sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Adopting a calmer tone, I went on, “Listen, I’m sorry for being such a pain, but I’m just very…confused at the moment. I’m lost and I don’t really know--“I cut myself off and shook my head. “What I’m trying to say is—it’s just that—“

I found myself strangely tongue-tied as I tried to explain my situation. Why it was so difficult, I didn’t know. I mean, is it really that hard to tell someone that you'd once thought him a raving lunatic and that he’d kidnapped you, but now you thought he was actually who he said he was and that you want to accompany him and his fellows because you don’t know the first thing about surviving in the wilderness? Oh, and let’s not forget that minute detail concerning the fact that, up until approximately forty-eight hours prior, he was nothing more than a character in a fantasy novel.

No, of course, it’s not.

And I do believe I sense a little sarcasm, don’t you?

 _Well, Kel, I wouldn’t worry about it overmuch because the only “raving lunatic” here is you. That much is evident, seeing that you’re actually considering going along with this nutter._ The thought burst through whatever weak resolution I had conjured.

And, thus, the battle between reason and rashness ensued.

 _Well, what the Hell am I supposed to do? I’m obviously not where I’m supposed to be and I have no earthly idea how I got here. So it’s either go with them and see what happens or head off on my own, which I seriously doubt is the best course of action considering the fact I’m in the middle of freaking nowhere!_ I gave a mental snort. _Oh, sure, let’s go traipsing around the forest with God only knows what lurking around in the bush. Uh, no, I don’t think so…_

Reason trudged on. _Speaking of things lurking around in the bush, what will you do when it all goes to pot, huh? Let’s just go with the hypothetical here, say that this really is Middle-earth, and ask what happens when the fun begins and you’re up to your eyeballs in Orcs? I highly doubt those self-defense classes you took are going to cut it against those monsters._

Heedless of the uneasy stares I currently received courtesy of Aragorn and company, I buried my fingers in my hair and released a frustrated growl. _Oh, shut up, you fool! I don’t have a choice. As it is, there’s no way they’ll let me go now. So, just shut your mouth and…oh, for the love of—I’m arguing with myself now? Jesus, Kel, you really have lost it._

“My lady?” 

Thrown forcefully from my internal battle by Aragorn’s tentative question, I whipped my eyes up to meet his and snipped, "What?"

“Are you well?” he inquired with a wary frown. “You seem a bit…disturbed.”

 _You have no idea, my dear Ranger. You really don’t._ I forced down the wry chuckle that threatened to escape me and nodded once before saying, “Yeah…fine.”

“You are sure?” he pressed.

I flashed him a feeble grin. “Positive.”

Although he was clearly unconvinced by my weak assertions, Aragorn didn’t pry any further, but rather extended his hand to me. “Let us go then. We have kept my companions long enough.”

I hesitated as doubt began to prod at me anew. There would be no turning back, I realized, once I took his hand. In accepting his guidance, I would thereby forfeit all sovereignty and resign myself to their direction. Worse yet, I would also have to accept the fact that I was the one in the wrong and that their story, as bizarre and improbable as it was, was not quite as ludicrous as I had deemed it.

_Geez, you moron, take a hint! You’re not fooling anyone, except maybe yourself. You saw those mountains. Just take a look around you. Draw a breath; the air’s not even the same here, not to mention the scenery. Face it, girl. You’re screwed._

I did laugh this time, the quiet sound slipping past my lips before I could stop it.

“You see, the chit’s mad! Look at her, breaking into hysterics at the drop of a feather,” Gimli exclaimed abruptly. “Bah! Leave her, laddie, and let’s be on our way.”

_Screwed, indeed._

Brushing my bangs away from my face with absent fingers, I swallowed the last dregs of my amusement and said, “While I have to say that I am far from hysterics at the moment, I just might be inclined to agree with you, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli started at my easy concession, but I overlooked his dazed appearance and turned my attention back to Aragorn, whose stormy gray gaze, I found, again rested on me. Hardly believing that I was actually going to follow through with this daft plan, I mulled carefully over my next choice of words. I knew it was far past time to offer up the proverbial olive branch. I would do it, however, if only to clear the air a bit. So, in the end, I settled upon the introduction that I had long denied him.

“Kelly.”

The Ranger, having started to turn away, halted and glanced back at me. “I beg your pardon?”

Feeling rather awkward all of a sudden, I looked away. “You asked me for my name last night. I thought you‘d still want to know,” I explained quietly. “My name is Kelly. Kelly Day.”

The man inclined his head. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

I must have looked surprised—and I was, considering his previous disinclination to offer his name--because a grin began overtake his features as he said, “I agreed to a trade, did I not? My name in exchange for yours.” I nodded faintly. “Well, then, now you have it as I have yours.”

Not really knowing how to respond, I just nodded again and probably looked incredibly foolish in the process. Luckily, Aragorn spared me from any further discomfiture. “Come along now. The Hobbits should have the mid-day meal prepared and we have tarried long enough. We shall be hard pressed to find any fare at all should we wait any longer.” With that, he gestured for me to follow and set off in the direction of their camp.

The walk back was shrouded in silence. Aragorn led the way while the others, I was well aware, lurked somewhere behind me, apparently assured of the fact that, should I decide to make a break for it, they could catch me with ease. I myself trailed after the Ranger as quickly as I could, but the wear and tear my body had taken over the last couple of days was making itself known once again and, when we finally stepped into the hollow of trees that Aragorn and Legolas had searched out for a resting place, I’ll freely admit that I have never been so delighted by the sight of a rough fire pit and a dusty bedroll.

Well, that is, until an age-roughened voice spoke up from the side.

“Caught up with her, did you?” asked Gandalf, his pipe tucked securely into the corner of his mouth.

“Aye, but a merry little chase she led us on, the goose,” complained Gimli as he plopped down to rest against a fallen log.

“I’m right here, you know,” I reminded him jadedly as I sank to the ground as well. “I apologized, so there’s no need for name calling.” The only response I received was a glare and a snort.

“Be that as it may, it was indeed a foolish thing to flee,” Gandalf chastised, “and, in any case, you shall not do so again, is that clear?”

I couldn’t help my budding annoyance. _What are you? My grandfather?_

“Is that clear?” he pushed when I didn’t immediately respond.

My eyebrows lifted in surprise at the severe command. Well, he certainly sounded like Gramps whenever I’d done something to displease him, though I doubted I could weasel my way out of trouble with the Wizard as easily as I had with my grandfather. “Crystal.”

Frowning deeply, Gandalf “hmm’ed” and rose from his resting place. “I shall hold you to your word then, child,” he declared. “But, come with me now. We must speak.”

“What?” I squeaked, unnerved by the idea of speaking alone with the surly old man. “Why?”

“You shall see,” he answered cryptically. “Now, come.”

I looked to Aragorn, only to find him peering curiously at the Wizard. The old man returned his stare steadily. Something seemed to pass between the two of them before Gandalf looked back to me and said, “I assure you it is but a trifling matter.”

“Then why can't we discuss it here with everyone else?” I countered.

“Do not quarrel so, Lady Kelly,” Aragorn cut in sternly. “Go with Gandalf now.”

My mouth, half-opened in preparation to argue, snapped shut as I thought better of it. Slowly, it had dawned on me that disagreeing with these people would get me absolutely nowhere and, frankly, I was tired of being at constant loggerheads with them. I had enough to deal with as it was; there was no need to add to the ever-increasing heap of worries already balanced precariously on my shoulders.

Besides, what could it hurt? The old man likely just wanted to warn me about controlling my temper and some such instruction as Aragorn had already given me. Bearing that thought in mind, I dragged myself to my feet and faced Gandalf. “Alright, then. Lead on.”

Gandalf nodded once and turned. “This way.” Then, without waiting to make sure I followed, he slipped into the thick of trees.

Frowning, I cast a glance in the Ranger’s direction. “Thanks for throwing me to the wolves, ‘Strider,’” I commented coolly.

“Nonsense,” he replied just as composedly. “He merely wishes to speak with you.”

I scowled and muttered, “Or maul me.” The look that Aragorn proceeded to send me said that he was willing to overlook that particular speculation as long as I got my backside in gear. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You and I both know that he doesn’t like me.” _Not that I give a rat’s behind… Oh, you know that’s a lie._

“Make haste, my lady,” he pressed. “Gandalf will grow impatient.”

I arched an eyebrow. _Note that he doesn’t deny the whole "mauling" thing._ “And what happened to that aforementioned ‘patience’ you and Gandalf supposedly possess?”

“Lady Kelly.” The Ranger’s tone heralded a warning. “Go.”

“Alright!” I exclaimed and, then, dropping my voice, muttered petulantly, “Geez. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” And, so, rounding on my heel while grumbling some less than gracious things in regards to the son of Arathorn, I hobbled off after the so-called Gray Pilgrim.


	6. Interlude: A Trifling Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude from Gandalf's perspective.

A Trifling Matter

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the plots, places, or characters associated with it. All are the creation of Mr. J.R.R. Tolkien and no copyright infringement is intended.

***

Three hundred lives of men he had lived and, yet, Gandalf the Grey was certain that he had never, in all his long years, come across a creature such as the girl who trailed nosily behind him. Brash, impetuous, and, thus far, rather uncouth, she was easily one of the most infuriating beings that he had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Granted, her displays of temper amused him greatly, but her hostility had resulted in more than a few bruises on behalf of both herself and his companions. However, even as the Wizard would be first to admit that she was likely the most insufferable woman to have ever graced his presence, he realized that there was something terribly amiss about the girl. From the very moment that she had stumbled, quite literally, across his company’s camp, he had known she was an anomaly.

Indeed, everything about the girl was peculiar. From her clothing, to her accent, to her very demeanor—yes, especially her demeanor—it all spoke of a blatant oddness, one that was glaringly apparent now that she stood barely ten feet from him. She was no native of this land, of that he was certain and the question of her origins was one that he had begun to ponder nearly incessantly over the last few hours; ever since her collapse upon the ridge, in fact. 

Most assuredly, the first glimpse of the great mountains in the early morning sunlight was breathtaking to any who had never ventured into their midst, but Gandalf would have never imagined that it would bring the girl to faint. Then again, it was one of several queer actions on her part. Of course, her collapse could have been perpetuated by exhaustion or perhaps even hunger, but the child had seemed relatively fine, if a little worn from their long march. 

Her distress, he noted, had come about only when they had reached the boundary of Hollin and, in the lull, the girl had begun to examine her surroundings. Gandalf recalled his brief recount of the region’s history and her weak reply to his mention of land’s title, as well as young Peregrin’s remark regarding their company’s direction. The Wizard had watched with increasing alarm as the child went deathly pale, her breath growing ragged as she turned slowly on her heel and gazed into the southern sky. An odd look, a fleeting combination of dread and acceptance, flitted across her face in the sparse seconds before she crumpled to the ground. In all, the incident was bizarre and, once he had assured himself that the child was merely unconscious rather than dead, he found himself given over to curiosity. 

_This girl will be the death of me,_ he concluded resignedly as he studied her disheveled form. Sympathy welled within him at the pathetic sight she made. Her tangled auburn hair was beginning to slip from the strange throng she used to draw it back from her face and the long tendrils fell carelessly into her dark eyes. A smudge of dirt made its way across the arch of one cheekbone and another marred her chin: Both were no doubt the result of her scuffles with Aragorn and the Elven Prince. Her clothing was rumpled and one of her odd tunic’s long sleeves was ripped to reveal the torn flesh of her right forearm. Gandalf wondered if the girl had noticed its state of damage or the blood that now seeped slowly from the reopened wounds. The Wizard decided he would ask Aragorn to see to it once his business with the child was finished.

Overall, she was a dreadful mess. Nevertheless, she stood tall and he nearly chuckled outright when she arched an eyebrow upon noticing his scrutiny. “I’d ask what you were staring at, but I’ve already got a pretty good idea,” she said with none of her former venom. If Gandalf hadn’t known any better, he would have sworn she sounded faintly amused. Admittedly, it was a sardonic sort of amusement, but amusement all the same.

He regarded her a moment longer before deciding to take pity on the girl. “I see that you have finally conceded to accept our aid,” he observed as he lowered himself to perch upon a large, flat stone on the stream’s edge. He had led the girl to the edge of a brook where he and Aragorn had agreed to rest for the remainder of the day. He hoped the opportunity for privacy might loosen the child’s tongue as, thus far, he knew next to nothing about her, save her aptitude to drive the normally poised Thranduilion to the brink of his composure. He watched her as she turned away from him and crouched down by the water’s edge.

She remained as such for a few short minutes, examining her reflection in the clear water, before rising to her full height once more and offering him a very unladylike snort. “Well, considering that I really didn’t have much of a choice, I figured it was the best course of action.” She began to cross her arms in what Gandalf recognized as a defensive gesture, but she immediately hissed in pain when she inadvertently brushed a hand against the abused skin above her wrist.

“That wound will need tending soon,” he pointed out while inclining his head towards her. “I will have Aragorn see to it and any other abrasions when we return. He is skilled in healing.”

“Aragorn has done enough for me,” the girl instantly refuted. “I can take care of it myself.” Frowning, she brought her hands to her hips. “Somehow, though, I doubt that was what you wanted to talk to me about. What is it, Gandalf?”

_Smart girl,_ he concluded with no small amount of surprise. And direct as well. Leaning forward, the Wizard brought his elbows to rest on his knees and, steepling his fingers, studied her through dark eyes. “Tell me, child,” he began slowly, “what is your name?”

With her previous desire to keep her identity withheld in mind, he half-expected her to deny him yet again, so he was rather startled when she smirked and replied, “I suppose it’s only fair that I tell you, since you were so gracious in providing yours.” There was mordant tone to her voice that Gandalf found he cared little for, but he chose to overlook it when she went on, “My name is Kelly Day.”

“And your age?”

“Twenty-two. Twenty-three in a few weeks, though I fail to see how my age is relevant to this conversation,” she replied.

Lifting a hand, the Wizard made a placating gesture. “I was merely curious.” At this, the girl “hmphed” and pursed her lips, but bit back her retort. “Now, your father’s name?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?” she asked, allowing her arms to fall slack at her sides. Gandalf arched an eyebrow of his own to prod her into an answer. She sighed with a roll of her eyes. “If you must know, his name is Matthew.” Then, with a significant amount of snark, she added, “Would you like his age and occupation as well?”

Despite the knowledge that the chit was merely needling him, the Wizard nodded. “If you please.”

Her sarcasm having been disregarded, the girl scowled. “He’s fifty-five and he’s an architect.”

“Architect?” the Wizard echoed curiously and he saw the girl stiffen. _Odd,_ he mused. Had he not been watching her so closely, he would have never picked up the movement. His interest piqued.

Seeming to silently reprimand herself, she muttered a curse before turning a pair of wary brown eyes to gaze at him. “Ah…um…yeah, you know,” she began after a brief hesitation and a flippant motion of her hand, “someone who designs buildings and…stuff.”

“I am afraid that I am not familiar with the term,” he admitted and, unlinking his fingers, he inquired, “Structures, you say? He is a carpenter of sorts, then?”

“Ah…not really,” she denied, reluctance still evident in her voice. “Although I do think the word ‘architect’ means ‘master builder’ or something to that effect. No, my father just makes up the designs for structures and oversees their construction. He doesn’t actually build anything.” Despite her obvious distaste for the turn their conversation had taken, another smirk threatened to cross her lips. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d be afraid if he ever tried--to build something, that is. He’s the most accident prone man I’ve ever met.”

Gandalf frowned as he mulled over this new bit of information. It certainly didn’t help him decipher anything more about the girl. He had hoped inquiring after her father and family might reveal something as to the girl’s identity as well as her place, position, and perhaps even how she had come to be in their midst. Instead, her explanation simply left him as baffled as ever, seeing that, while he was aware of individuals who held such positions (especially in the kingdoms of Men), he had never before heard the term “architect.” To his knowledge, those who planned the structure most often also participated in the actual construction as well. Or so was the way of Elves and Men in this land, though those of nobility sometimes oversaw the building of their own commissioned work. Hence, the idea of an “architect” was relatively foreign to Gandalf’s mind.

"Is he a man of consequence in your homeland?” he pressed on after a moment of contemplation.

He watched the girl as she tilted her head slightly to the side. She appeared genuinely confused. “What’d you mean ‘a man of consequence’?” she repeated slowly.

“What is his place? Is he a noble, a man of wealth?” He gestured towards her garments, causing the girl to peer down at herself and then back at him in question. “It is easy to see that you are certainly no peasant. The cloth you wear speaks of affluence as do the jewels in your ears, so surely your family is of some prominence.”

She looked thoughtful. “Well, I guess that explains the ‘my lady’ business.”

Shrugging, she went on, “I suppose by your standards, my family would be considered pretty well off, but we’re not nobility or anything. Well, not to my knowledge, anyway. If we are, it was way back in the line, so it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“So you are, indeed, a commoner?”

“Um…yeah, I guess I am.”

“Hn.”

They lapsed into silence as the Wizard mulled over his next line of inquiries. Really, dealing with this girl was like trying to wring water from a stone; it yielded little in the way of substance and what little information she provided served more to baffle him than anything else. Hitherto, he had learned only her name, her father’s trade, and the fact that, to her understanding, her family was of common stock. She offered no more on the subject of herself. Whether from a lack of trust in him or natural wariness, the Wizard did not know, but he found himself growing rather impatient with her reticence. So he pressed on, though this time, he chose to get directly to the heart of the matter.

“So tell me, my girl,” he began, “how it is that you came to be so far out into the Wild, alone, and lacking in both supply and means of protection?”

Truthfully, he expected some sort of snappish retort or perhaps even no reply at all, so he was thoroughly surprised when she returned from the stream’s edge and proceeded to settle down on a stone across from him. Reaching up, she released her hair from its bind and, running her fingers through the coppery strands, she fixed him with a calculating stare. After several seconds of gazing unblinkingly at him, she turned her face away to look across the stream and gifted him with a reply that left him balking.

“Honestly, Gandalf, your guess is a good as mine.”

For a long moment, he couldn’t bring himself to speak and he merely gaped at the girl as she twirled the throng from her hair between her fingers. Perhaps he was simply frustrated with the direction of their exchange and the lack of knowledge it had provided, but her nonchalant manner coupled with her impertinent response grated on his nerves.

“This is not a matter of jest, child,” he said sternly. “I would have a truthful answer when I ask you a question.”

Flashing brown eyes immediately snapped up to meet his, and he was more than a little unnerved by the incredulity he saw in their dark depths. There was no lie in the child’s eyes. “I do not ‘jest,’ Gandalf.”

And it was with this comment that Gandalf found himself, once more, questioning the girl’s sanity. Unfortunately, the dead air that ensued in the wake of her proclamation served merely to put the girl back on edge and, before he could even begin to formulate a proper response, she was on her feet. Judging by the expression on her face, he came to the grim realization that he should prepare himself for the coming tirade. Indeed, he fully expected to witness yet another round of the girl’s fiery temper.

Therefore, it came as quite the shock when she seemed to swallow her words and, casting him an exasperated sort of look, she shook her head, saying, “You know, frankly, I don’t care if you believe me or not. It’s not my problem and, as far as I’m concerned, this conversation’s over.” Then, with an irritable toss of her auburn mane, she spun on her heel and began to trudge back up the bank towards their meager camp.

Now, the Wizard knew, without a doubt, that to allow her to return to his companions in such a state of smoldering ire would not bode well—for himself or his unsuspecting company. Yes, especially his unsuspecting company, considering that he was the one who had worked her into said state of ire. They would have no idea just how unstable she was until one of them did or said something to set her off. While she appeared to have controlled her temper for the time being, he was more than certain it would eventually erupt and result in a disaster of some sort. And so, it was with the possibility of such a catastrophe planted clearly in his mind that Gandalf sprang to his feet with a grace that belied his aged body and, in a few steady strides, captured the girl’s slender wrist in his own gnarled fingers.

The effect was instantaneous.

She whipped around, her lips parting to give him a verbal bashing—no doubt--just as her free hand slammed down atop his own in an attempt to pry the appendage free. Her grip was strong, he noted judiciously; tight, though not enough to be painful, and, yet, it was obvious that she was warning him to release her. Of course, he had absolutely no intention of doing so—or, at least, not until she calmed enough to warrant it.

“Be still,” he ordered firmly.

“Let me go.” Her demand was nothing more than a vehement hiss, accompanied by a ferocious tug and the bite of fingernails against his skin, and Gandalf very nearly complied. After all, the sensation wasn’t exactly pleasant.

“Peace, child: You are far too swift to anger,” the Wizard responded as he tightened his hold to still her struggles.

A curse met his efforts, even as she quieted in his grasp. Turning her dark, furious orbs on him, she said flatly, “That wasn’t a request, Gandalf.”

“Have you calmed yourself sufficiently so that we may continue our conversation?” he asked shortly, annoyance beginning to bubble in his veins. _I’m far too old for this sort of nonsense._

“Don’t you mean ‘interrogation?'” she spat in retaliation and gave another mighty yank of her arm.

Much to the Wizard’s astonishment, she tore free. Unfortunately for the girl, the momentum of the action caused her to overbalance and she would have ended up in an ungainly heap on the ground had it not been for the fact that Gandalf lurched forward and seized her by the shoulders before she managed to do so. His intention had been to steady her and prevent further injury to her person, seeing as she was already rather bedraggled and looked quite like something the cat had dragged onto the back stoop. However, just as with many other things concerning this woman child, his rescue did not go entirely as planned. While, he did, in fact, spare her what would have surely been a nasty tumble into the streambed, he found the most unnerving feeling wash over him as he dragged her back to her feet.

In hindsight, he realized that he should have released her the second she regained her feet. He knew she didn’t take well to physical contact of any kind--let alone the kind of manhandling to which he had just resorted—and, yet, he could not. Had he followed that particular impulse, the girl would have slipped to her knees as her legs seemed no longer able to support her weight. She had gone terribly still, her eyes large and strangely glassy, and he watched as she raised both hands, her fingertips coming to rest lightly on his wrists.

A gasp—from his own lips, he realized faintly—hissed through the air, followed by a sharp cry from the girl, and then darkness.

How long it lasted, he had no idea, nor was he precisely aware of the moment he had closed his eyes, and he only returned to awareness when the girl abruptly ripped away from him with a force violent enough to send her sprawling. She landed with a muffled “oomph” and merely lay there, her eyes squeezed shut while she gasped for breath.

The Wizard quickly discovered he was in no better condition. His head suddenly ached terribly and he found himself stumbling over to one of the river stones and easing his weary frame down onto its smooth surface. He wondered briefly on this newfound fatigue, but he had no more answer for it than for the ragged question that escaped the girl’s lips.

“What the Hell just happened?” she asked breathlessly.

“I do not know,” came his strained reply.

By the Valar, his head ached. Resting his elbows on his knees, Gandalf dropped his forehead to rest in his hands as he pressed the tips of his fingers against his temples in an attempt to ease the dull throb that had taken up residence. It was an queer sort of pain, one that made him feel as if he’d had too little sleep or perhaps a bit too much wine. His mind was muddled, fuzzy about the edges, and felt entirely too full: He could hardly begin to describe the sensation. Something was pricking at the edge of his senses, in the recesses of his psyche; it felt as though he had forgotten something important.

Sighing, the old man closed his eyes. The pricking grew stronger and it tugged at him now, incessant and demanding. Faint whispers brushed hesitantly against his ears as the impression of a memory long buried teased him. Fleeting flashes of color, light, and form danced across his mind’s eye and the Wizard found himself growing swiftly irritated at his lack of recollection. Furrowing his brow, he concentrated on dredging up whatever reminiscences his mind tried so desperately to summon.

A fierce pain suddenly flared within the confines of his skull and then everything came into startlingly clear focus.

_Massive structures built of steel and glass; moving pictures; great, silver birds in the sky; perfect, glossy portraits of one’s countenance; strange quills without ink wells; torches bright but without flame…_

They were many and brief, these visions, lasting mere seconds before bleeding into the next, and Gandalf found himself bombarded with a wealth of knowledge that was not his own. They were incredible, these things, these “skyscrapers,” “movies,” “airplanes,” “photographs,” “ink pens,” and “flashlights.” Such amazing creations, they seemed, to his mind, and yet he knew they were not. They were commonplace; normal, everyday objects with little importance in the overall scheme of things.

There were other images, however, much more particular and that left a much stronger imprint after their passing. They seemed almost…intimate.

_A middle-aged man with peppered hair and warm, dark eyes, his arm slung around the slender shoulders of auburn-haired woman; a spacious bedchamber swathed in jades and blues; a little, white dog curled up on a tasseled cushion; a porcelain- faced doll, clad in bright silks; a bespectacled old man seated in a favored chair, a pipe clutched in one hand, a paper in the other; an upturned book, its pages fluttering in the breeze…_

_Her memories,_ the Wizard realized suddenly, somewhere in the back of his mind. _These are the girl’s memories. These are her friends, her family; the things she holds most dear._

He could feel her attachment to them as well as if it were his own, and Gandalf was both startled and unnerved by the revelation, uncomfortable in the fact that he had intruded upon something that should have been sacred. He knew that he should pull away, that he should close himself completely to that which he should have never been privy, yet he could not. He was helpless and bound to the course of her reminiscences.

_A boy, sandy-haired and hazel-eyed, his lean frame slouched against the trunk of a massive oak as a roguish grin pulled at his lips; a thin, willowy girl, clad in light brown and yellow, her hand raised in greeting while she stood at the edge of a well-beaten forest path; shadows cast by early morning sunlight spilling though a thick canopy of leaves…_ A feeling of unease began to stir in his gut. There was a slight pause, a hitch in his breath.

And then he saw himself, standing, stern-faced and unreadable, alongside the irate Elven Prince.

Fear swept over him, a terror unlike anything he had ever before known and, after one disorienting moment, he realized what he felt was the same as experienced by the girl while she stared down the shaft of Thranduilion’s arrow. He felt her shock, her skepticism, and, finally, her anger upon his introduction and that of his companions, followed by her resolve to not go down without a fight. There was her outrage at having been struck unconscious and, subsequently, awakening on the cold ground, and her panic at having discovered the ropes about her wrists. Following was fury at Legolas as he bound her ankles, then curiosity of Aragorn’s character while she studied him, and pleasure in taunting the son of Gloin as well as astonishment upon encountering the Hobbits for the very first time.

Her emotions ebbed and flowed like the tides. Ire, terror, anxiety, dread, guilt, sorrow, and acceptance: They slid swiftly and seamlessly into the one another in the same manner of the visions they accompanied, and Gandalf felt himself nearly overwhelmed by their intensity. The pounding in his head increased tenfold and his skull felt very much like it might split in two. And, yet, through the agony and absolute confusion, the Wizard came to one single, startlingly clear conclusion.

The girl was not of this world.

“Gandalf?” Her voice seemed distant, as though it came from afar, and Gandalf forced himself to focus on it over the pulse of blood at his temples. “Gandalf? Are you alright?” Light footsteps approached before a small hand hesitantly brushed his shoulder.

With the touch, the surge receded just as swiftly as it began and the pain diminished to a dull thrum. The images grew faded and gray, slowed, and began to taper off as any remaining sentiment drained away like water through a sieve. He felt strangely hollow in its absence, but much more like himself.

“Gandalf?” Again, she tried to gain his attention, and he heard the smallest hint of panic begin to seep into her tone as the hand on his shoulder tightened. “Gandalf, answer me!”

Lifting his head from its place in his hands, he peered unyieldingly into the girl’s worried eyes.

“You know our fates.” 

The words were quiet, spoken more to himself than to the girl, but she heard them nonetheless, and the hand on his shoulder ripped away as though it had been burned.

Rising slowly, he turned to face her, only to find her staring at him in bewilderment. “You know our fates and the fate of this world--the outcome of this quest. You know what will come to pass.” The girl’s slackened jaw snapped shut with an audible “clack” as she quickly backed away and refused to meet his searching gaze, but her reaction merely confirmed his suspicions. And, yet, he was at a loss. How could this girl—this mere child—know such things? For a split second, he entertained the thought that she was some type of Seer, possessed of some great foresight. The notion, however, was quickly dismissed. His encounters with such beings relayed that their visions of the future were, at best, questionable and never were they Seen with such clarity. There was little doubt; this girl knew what would come to pass.

“How?” he murmured. “How is it that you possess such knowledge?” He took a step forward and she one back, stumbling blindly in her desire to keep as much distance between them as possible. The action sparked his anger. “Speak, girl. Tell me how you came to know such things.”

There were a few more moments of silence during which he stared intently at the female before him and she herself stared at anything save him. Finally, a sigh escaped her lips and she, at last, turned her gaze towards him once more. “I doubt you’d believe me even if I told you, Gandalf,” she replied shortly. “It’s a long story, one that I doubt you want to hear and, to tell you the truth, I really don’t want to tell it.”

“Tell me, child. I shall not ask you again.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “If I recall correctly, you didn’t ask me the first time. Not to mention the fact that I fail to see how I came about knowing what I may or may not know is any of your business.”

“Do not test me, girl. There is far too much at stake in this venture: The fate of this land and its peoples rests on our success.” He scowled and approached her once more, vaguely surprised when she did not attempt to escape and, instead, brought her hands to rest on her hips as though daring him to continue. And continue he did. “Yet you know this, do you not? You realize what will come to pass should we fail, should the Shadow overcome us.”

“And if I do?” she returned hotly. “What would you have me do, Gandalf?”

“You will tell me what you know of us and how you came to possess such knowledge,” was his demand. “And you will tell me how you came to be here, in this world, when it is apparent that it is not your own.”

Her bark of laughter was sharp and sudden as she turned her back to him and allowed her arms to fall to her sides. For a few long moments, she made no move to comply with his command and merely stood, her head tilted back as she stared at the early afternoon sky. Gandalf studied her closely, trying to determine exactly what she would do, though he understood that, if anything, the girl was stubborn and she would allow no other to discern her thoughts should she choose to keep them hidden.

A heavy breath rushed from her lips just before she sank to the ground where she stood and dropped her forehead into her hands. “You know I didn’t ask for this, right?” Pinching the bridge of her nose, she looked up at him. “I have absolutely no desire to be here and sure as Hell no desire to have this conversation with you.”

Gandalf snorted. “I am well aware your feelings concerning me and mine, child. I simply wish to determine whether or not you will pose a threat to my company and its course.”

“A threat?” she laughed. “Gandalf, you said it yourself. I’m alone, weaponless, without protection. What on earth could I possibly do to harm you?”

“Some need neither blade nor bow to bring harm,” the Wizard answered shrewdly. “Many servants of the Enemy employ only a clever mind and a silvered tongue to achieve their mischief. And you, I believe, possess both.”

The girl—Kelly offered a derisive snort of her own before saying with dripping sarcasm, “Of course. If you must know, I’ve perfected the fine art of being a complete smart ass.” She chuckled softly then, and offered him a lopsided grin. “I assure you, I’m harmless.”

Gandalf watched her a moment longer, staring into eyes that were amused, yet shuddered. He could see nothing of her thoughts. “Be that as it may, I will not risk the security of my party. As I have said before, there is far too much at risk,” he stated with a frown. “You must tell me everything.”

There was another heavy sigh. “Why won’t you just let it alone?” She shook her head, her ruddy bangs falling over her eyes. “After all, everyone has their secrets, don’t they, Gandalf?” He caught the slightest hint of a smirk as she tilted her head to the side in mild curiosity. “Or perhaps I should say Olorin?” The Wizard balked and the smirk widened. “Well, that is your name, isn’t it?”

Finding the voice that had been temporarily lost to him, Gandalf swallowed thickly and said, “It has been many years since last I bore that title.”

The girl agreed with the inclination of her head. “Yes. Not since you left the ancient West, if I recall correctly.” The smirk softened into a smile as she continued, “ _’Olorin, sent by the Lords of the West to guard the Lands of the East.’_ ” She offered him a helpless shrug. “You are of the Maiar: a keeper of the Sacred Fire, a servant of the Valar.”

Gandalf was torn somewhere among disbelief, horror, and something akin to nostalgia. “That knowledge is privy only to a select few.” He knew not what else to say. Once again, she had thrown him for a loop.

“And I’m not one of them,” she replied. “I know that.” Her strange smile faded and she said nothing more until, after a few long moments of silence, she complied, “I’ll tell you what you want to know, but only on one condition.”

Still reeling at the extent of her awareness of their world, he scowled. “You are hardly in a position to demand concessions, child.”

“I’m aware of that, but humor me, please,” the girl entreated. “Just this once, Gandalf. I’m going to have enough trouble explaining things as it is.”

“Oh, very well,” the Wizard conceded. “I will hear your terms.”

Kelly nodded as an uncomfortable look crossed her features. “All I ask is that you hear me out. Just don’t…wig out or anything.”

“’Wig out’?” he echoed curiously, tilting his head slightly to the side. Yet another of the girl’s bizarre phrases, he gathered, as he heard her wry laugh.

“Never mind,” she replied, shaking her head slightly. “I just don’t want you to get upset. I have to admit that what I’m about to tell you will probably sound a bit far-fetched,” the corner of her lips quirked into that same mocking smile from before as she went on, “if not completely insane. I just wanted to warn you.”

Gandalf studied her expression keenly. Shoulders stiff and fingers knotted in her lap, she seemed nervous, if not downright fearful of his reaction. He dismissed the thought after a few brief moments and attributed her edginess to her somewhat capricious personality. In the end, he inclined his head to her and agreed with her request. “Very well, child, your counsel shall be heeded.”

With his acquiescence, the girl’s shoulders appeared to lose some of their tension and she released a heavy breath before she, once again, ran her fingers through her wild hair in what the Wizard assumed was an attempt to settle her nerves. Then, lifting her head, she met his gaze full-on for the first time since their “conversation” had begun. Deep blue clashed with inky brown, and, after a long stretch in which the pair simply stared at one another, the girl looked away and began to speak.

“I’m honestly not sure where to start, Gandalf. There’s a lot to explain,” she started, much more calmly than the Wizard thought her capable. In fact, she seemed so calm that it was almost worrisome. She was so…spirited, so fiery that for her to act otherwise was cause enough for concern on his behalf.

“At this point, the beginning seems most prudent,” he prodded as he watched her study the dirty skin of her palms.

“The beginning, huh?” she reiterated with another wry pull of her lips. “I’m not even sure where the ‘beginning’ begins, let alone how to explain it.” At his deepening scowl, she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Look, I know you think I’m just being stubborn and I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive my reservations. It’s not everyday that I encounter…people like you.”

“What do you mean ‘people like me’?” the Wizard questioned slowly.

Dark eyes, shuddered and solemn, closed as the girl heaved another sigh and slouched gracelessly. “People like you—Wizards, Elves, Hobbits—“she answered haltingly, as if choosing her words carefully. Frowning, she lowered her gaze. “I think you’ve already realized that I’m not from around here. In fact, that’s probably the understatement of the century.” She reached up to tuck a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. In doing so, she drew his attention once more to the strange gems she wore, pierced into her flesh. Gandalf had heard of men from distant lands—from Harad and the Far East—doing much the same, though their adornments were never so refined. “Where I’m from, things are…different.”

“So I have gathered,” he replied dryly.

She slated him a sharp look through thick lashes, but continued as though he had never spoken, “Very different.” The words were murmured and, for a moment, the girl seemed to drift off, her thoughts straying back to the world of her birth. Coming back to herself abruptly, she rose suddenly and began to pace, all nervous energy now. “I’m terrified, you know. Completely and utterly scared out my wits,” she stated baldly. “I don’t know how any of this happened, so I can’t really tell you how I came to be here because I don’t know myself. And that thought absolutely petrifies me.”

Mildly unnerved by the sudden shift in the girl’s demeanor, Gandalf lifted a hand and said, “Calm yourself, child. You have nothing to fear from me, or my companions, unless you prove a danger to us.”

“I will not calm myself!” she exploded as she rounded on him. “Don’t you see? I know too much, Gandalf, too much about this world. You said it yourself; I know your fates. I know what will become of each and every one of you. I can’t help but be a danger to you.” Breathing heavily, she sank back to her knees, kneeling beside the cool, swirling water of the brook. She looked up at him pleadingly. “I’m lost in a world that shouldn’t even exist and my very presence could change the fate of you all.”

“You understand the need for caution then,” replied Gandalf sternly. “However, I must inquire of exactly how much you do know? And how you came by such knowledge?”

“Everything. I know everything. I know who you really are and where you come from. I know about Aragorn and his being the heir of Isildur. I know about the One and your quest. I know virtually everything about everyone in the Fellowship,” she explained. “I know because I’ve heard it all before--because where I come from, all of this,” here she raised her arm to gesture to the surrounding trees and the world beyond, “is nothing more than a fairytale.” She laughed then, a low, slightly unsettling, little chuckle that made a chill run down the Wizard’s spine. “Or, at least, I thought it was. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“A fairytale we are not, my girl, though I now understand the reason for your wariness,” the Wizard answered sharply, but, upon seeing the anxious expression on the child’s face, he softened his tone. “You fear what is come.”

“I’d be stupid not to,” she sniped back and then exhaled sharply through her nose, checking her temper. “If you truly are who you say you are, then I’m a very real danger to you, Gandalf, and to Frodo.” His expression of shock at her use of the Ringbearer’s name made the girl grin crookedly; she had never been formally introduced to the dark-haired Hobbit. “Oh, yes, I know his name, just as I know yours. Frodo Baggins of the Shire—Bag End, to be precise. He is the cousin of Bilbo Baggins, who found the Ring. Bilbo took it from the creature Gollum and Lord Elrond of Rivendell charged Frodo with bearing the Ring back to Mordor, to destroy it.” Seeing the Wizards eyebrows arch to nearly his hairline, she paused and inquired coolly, “Shall I continue?”

Silence reigned for several seconds before the Wizard shook off his bewilderment. “I know not how you know such things, but you should not speak so freely of them,” he said grimly, his suspicions of her origins thoroughly confirmed by her words. “You are perhaps not of this world, but it seems that you are now part of it and subject to what ever evil would befall it should your careless words be overheard. Take heed of what you speak and to whom.” Picking up his staff and bedraggled blue hat from the ground beside his resting place, the Wizard stood. It was time to end this discussion and return to their companions; he now had much to consider. “In fact, perhaps it would be best if you did not speak of anything we have discussed here today.”

The girl frowned deeply. “And why is that?”

“As you and I agree, the knowledge you possess is dangerous. It is best if it remains hidden for as long as possible. Speak not of it to anyone, save me,” he answered, “and then only in the direst need.”

“And the others? What if they ask about me? Or where I’m from?” she pressed. “In fact, Aragorn already has. He knows something is off about me.”

The Wizard shook his head. “Leave the others to me. They shall heed my warnings not to question you.”

“What about the Quest then? What should I do?”

“Nothing.”

“What?” The girl fairly shrieked.

“Do not interfere. You must allow the events to come to play out as they will.”

“But I--if anything happens to any of you because of something I did or said—Gandalf, I could change the entire course of the future if I sneeze at the wrong time. I can’t just stand by and do nothing.”

“You can and you will,” was the simple response. “You must not interfere with the chosen course of things. You must be careful of what you say and do.” The girl saw the logic in his words, yet she obviously chafed against it. 

Still frowning darkly, she nodded her assent with a mumbled, “fine.” 

Taking his staff in one hand, the Wizard gestured towards the path. “That’s settled then. Come. Let us return to camp.”

“Um…actually,” the girl shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably and looked longingly toward the water of the stream, “would you mind terribly if I stayed here and…umm…washed up a bit? I’m kind of grubby.” 

The Wizard glanced down at the girl’s torn and soiled clothing. Yes, perhaps that would be prudent. She was in a sad state as she was and her wounds stood the chance of becoming infected if they were not seen to soon.

“Very well,” he conceded and received what he realized was likely the first true smile to cross the girl’s face since he had first encountered her. “Be quick about it. I shall send someone to tend to your wounds.” And, with that, Gandalf donned his tattered hat, turned on his heel, and moved up the embankment towards their camp, his mind whirring with the revelations his conversation with Kelly Day had wrought.


	7. Go for Broke

A Road Less Traveled 

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the characters, places, or situations affiliated with it. They are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien and I am making absolutely no money from this venture.

***

“Well, that certainly went nicely,” I grumbled irritably as I watched the drab form of Gandalf the Grey disappear into the gloom of the forest. 

In retrospect, I would have to admit that the encounter could have gone much worse, but, at that exact moment, as I listened to the Wizard’s footsteps fade into the distance, I made no attempt to stall my uncharitable thoughts. Squelching the sudden and somewhat violent impulse to storm up the path to camp in order to thwack Gandalf over the head with his own staff proved difficult enough. 

I was less than thrilled about the turn our encounter had taken. _A trifling matter, my ass._

Honestly, who was the old coot trying to fool? There was absolutely nothing "trifling" about my present circumstances and that fact, my friends, was abundantly clear. Impossible though the notion might seem, somehow--whether by divine intervention or some cosmic fluke, I had no clue--I found myself trapped in Middle-earth. Middle-earth! I might as well have been shanghaied back to the Dark Ages, if what I recalled of the cultures and customs of this world held true. 

It was utterly insane and, not to mention, terrifying to consider the mere prospect that this reality truly existed. But to discover myself stranded in it--in this place where Elves and Wizards walked and Men still lived and died by virtue of the blade--it was seven kinds of crazy. In truth, I still considered it quite possible that I might very well be locked in a padded room somewhere, sporting a fancy, new jacket.

False hope, that.

I was screwed.

Seriously.

In Arda Marred I was ensnared and I now had little choice but to accept my lot and all that it entailed, including accompanying the Fellowship of the Ring into dark and distant lands. 

Well, at least, until I managed to get myself killed. 

_Oh, c'mon, Kel. It'll be just like Camelot, I mused in sardonic humor, only with Orcs, Dark Lords, and maniacal jewelry._ I snorted to myself. _Right. Give me medieval love triangles any day._

Bad humor aside, I confess that I thought it somewhat reassuring to realize that at least one of my companions recognized, if not comprehended, the predicament in which I presently found myself. Granted, the crazy Maia could have been a bit more judicious in his means of acquiring that particular information (ideally, without harassing me to the brink of my sanity) but I took comfort in the idea that I might no longer need to bear the burden alone. While he may have neither understood my world, nor how I had come to know so much about his own, Gandalf was very much aware of just how that knowledge could have greater consequences than any of us were prepared to handle. 

The Wizard's swearing me to silence, on the other hand, grated on my nerves. I'd never taken well to any sort of helplessness and I knew that not interfering with the Fellowship's journey would be next to impossible. Having my hands tied, figuratively speaking, was already nearly unbearable, and I only hoped that I could stay myself when our company came to more trying ventures. After all, it is one thing to sit back and read about someone's misery or to see it played out on a movie screen, but quite another to actually experience it firsthand. 

Even so, I expect that Gandalf was right to demand that I hold my tongue. It would be foolish to advertise just how much I knew of the Fellowship's errand, especially in the open wild where anyone or anything, for that matter, could overhear. Sticking my nose into the matters of Middle-earth, so to speak, wouldn't do any of us any favors. 

_Besides, what do you think you can really accomplish by interfering?_ The question brought a thoughtful frown to my lips. _So far, you've done little more than make trouble for Aragorn, what with trying to drive Legolas up the wall and picking on Gimli. Don't go meddling in things you ought not. Who knows what would happen in the end?_ I released a heavy sigh. _Just leave it alone and worry about getting yourself straightened out for the time being. Cross those bridges when you come to them._

Incredibly frustrated and, yet, resigned to my fate all the same, I buried my head in my hands and cursed Lady Fate. The fact that I’d most likely just smeared dirt and who knows what else across my face remained irrelevant: At that moment, I had far more pressing concerns--namely, the ticking time bomb that was my bladder. _Good Lord, I've got to pee._

You know, one never truly appreciates the convenience of modern amenities until one is deprived of them. Then again, by that point in time, I would've been thrilled by the rank depths of a county fair Port-o-John, never mind full-service facilities. Regrettably, as I appeared to be five miles outside of nowhere, I forced myself to reconcile the idea of utilizing, as one might say, the “squat-and-go” technique.

Naturally, I was completely mortified by the mere concept and I briefly mulled over the possibility of stripping and wading out into the deepest part of the creek to “do the deed.” Nonetheless, irrespective of my very real need for a proper wash, I quickly disposed of that notion, seeing that it was not only disgusting, but rather stupid as well. Judging by the frigid wind and bare trees, I realized that it was the dead of winter and even I’m not that idiotic. 

Or desperate, for that matter. 

Regardless of my present state of filthiness, traipsing into what was, in all likelihood, absolutely glacial water was border-line suicidal. Besides, I’m relatively sure that the rill was the only source of clean water in the immediate vicinity and, as such, was also our party’s only source of potable liquid. 

Out of options and very displeased with that information, I grimaced and moved closer to the shelter of the trees. There I hoped to find a somewhat secluded spot to "take care of business," as it were. Strangely enough, it proved easier than one might think to ignore that I was about to relieve myself where virtually anyone could stumble across me.

Thankfully, no one did, and, after utilizing the dilapidated remains of my torn shirtsleeve for "bigger and better purposes" and burying its remains beneath the gnarled mess of a nearby thicket, I returned to the stream to wash up. Had I not been so utterly determined to maintain some semblance of hygiene, I might have cringed at my blatant disregard for Middle-earth’s ecological balance. Rather, I decided that restoring some pretense of order to my person was another one of those aforementioned “pressing concerns.” I felt positively…icky, for lack of a better word. 

Not only that, when I crouched by the stream's edge and peered into its clear water, I grimaced as I discovered that I looked quite like I'd been dragged backwards through a hedge. Despite my having tried to subdue the mess after freeing it from its ponytail, my hair looked rather like a family of sparrows had come home to roost. Usually relatively tame, the auburn tresses were tangled and sported several small twigs, as well as some other unidentifiable detritus that I had no doubt picked up while wallowing around on the ground as much as I had during the course of this "adventure."

Evidently, said “wallowing” was also responsible for the smudges of dirt that spread across my cheek and chin. I attempted to wipe away the one of my cheek, but the venture proved futile. I merely succeeded in smearing it across the side of my face. 

_I need a bath,_ I acknowledged firmly as I dropped my hand. _Yes, a warm bath with a bar of soap, a book, and a glass of wine._ Heaving another sigh, I shook my head. _Make that several glasses of wine. And maybe a shot or two, if the wine doesn’t get me totally sloshed. I think I’m going to need a dose of hard liquor before all’s said and done._

Of course, any and all ideas regarding alcohol and reading material were for naught because I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to possess either for a very, very long time. Heck, I doubted even the abovementioned soap would prove accessible anywhere in the near future. Completely depressed by that particular insight, I pushed myself to my feet and quickly gauged the condition of the rest of my body. 

Although exhausted and unpleasantly sore, I noted that everything was, for the most part, in full working order. My only true reason for concern was my right arm, which presently sported some rather harsh-looking abrasions, courtesy of my earlier scuffles with Aragorn and the Elven prince. While still raw and red, they no longer bled, but obviously needed to be cleaned and dressed before any nasty, little Middle-Earthian microbes decided to set up shop.

Despite the poor condition of my forearm, I’m happy to say that I was, overall, in pretty decent shape, even in light of everything I’d undergone over the last forty-eight hours. Sadly, I can’t say the same for my clothing, which had most definitely seen better days. A more in-depth study revealed that my sneakers were covered in mud and other refuse that I couldn’t even begin to fathom and my blue jeans now possessed two new rips: One in the left knee and the other on my upper thigh.

My shirt, too, appeared to be on its last legs. In addition to the missing sleeve, a large tear marred the fabric just beneath my collarbone and another stretched across my lower ribcage. Furthermore, it was covered in spatters of mud and bloodstains while the bottom left quarter dangled precariously off my hip. I'm not entirely sure how I managed to mangle the thing so badly, but, in its condition, the garment provided little in the way of modesty or protection from the elements. Therefore, I decided to simply remove it all together.

I doubted that I'd ever be able to get it clean again anyway. 

Thus, clad only in my jeans and the black camisole I’d worn beneath the henley, I knelt and dipped the battered, gray cloth into the water.

_Christ, that’s freezing!_ Air hissed through my clenched teeth as the gelid water bit my hands and sent a fresh wave of gooseflesh springing up along my arms. Seriously, the cold was nearly enough to make me re-evaluate the necessity of personal cleanliness. Nonetheless, my modern sensibilities succeeded in overriding the feeling of numbness that began to seep into my fingers as I brought the cloth to my face. Eyeing the dripping vestment with no small amount of misgiving, I clenched my jaw. _There’s nothing for it, I guess..._

I’d just managed to remove all traces of dirt from my face and hands by way of a thorough scrubbing and was in the process of trying to return some sense of order to my hair when the soft "thud" of footsteps caught my ears. A moment later, the sound tapered off and there was a second of silence before Aragorn’s cautious voice queried, “Lady Kelly?”

"Yes?" I answered as I finished pulling my hair into an untidy knot atop my head and turned my gaze towards the trees. 

“Are you well?” he asked hesitantly and I heard him move a bit closer to the embankment.

“If by 'well' you mean decent, then yes,” I called back, smirking when it occurred to me that he waited in the trees because he was unsure of my state of dress. Glancing down at my naked arms, I added to myself, “Well, as decent as I can be at this point.”

At my go-ahead, the Ranger emerged from the shadows, followed by, to my abject surprise, Legolas. Per usual, the Prince of Mirkwood ignored me completely as he knelt next to the brook and began to fill the leather casks he carried. Aragorn, on the other hand, moved to stand before me and, lifting one dark eyebrow, gave me a quick once over.

“I see there is, in fact, a lady beneath the dreck,” he commented amusedly after a moment, “and a winsome one, at that.”

I blinked in surprise at the gentle teasing and then grinned wryly. “So it seems,” I replied, “though the ‘winsome’ assessment might be a little far-fetched.”

“The lady is too modest,” he disagreed lightly. A crooked smile on his lips, he continued with the upmost gallantry, “Like high summer, she is, fiery and fair.”

I didn't bother to try and stop the laughter that bubbled forth at his declaration: His description was one of more amusing things I'd heard in my life. Not just because it sounded like it had been lifted from the pages of a Gothic romance, but because it couldn’t have been farther from the truth. My hair remained an oily, matted disaster; my clothes were in tatters; and, despite my best efforts, a thin layer of grime still covered my skin. And, as if that were not enough, the threat of B.O. also lurked close at hand. Hence, if one were honest, my appearance was more worrisome than “winsome.” 

All the same, I chuckled and, once I’d regain a modicum of my composure, conceded mirthfully, “Far be it for me to argue, my lord.”

“Indeed not, for you know what I say is true,” was his grave comment, yet there lingered a playful light in his eyes and I forced down the desire to ask exactly what it was that he smoked in that pipe of his.

Instead, I just smiled and shook my head. Then, rising from my resting place on one of the many large stones that lined the stream's edge and dusting off the back of my jeans, I inquired, “Did Gandalf send you to fetch me?”

“He did,” answered the Ranger. “He also asked that I tend the wounds on your arm. I shall do so as soon as we return to camp.”

"You don’t have to,” I asserted as I picked up my makeshift towel. “I told him I’d take care of it. I have some stuff in my pack.”

Aragorn fixed me with a skeptical look and, before I realized what he was up to, he grasped my hand carefully in his own. He raised the limb so as to examine the scrapes more closely and, after a few moments of concerned study, he nodded thoughtfully. “’Tis not as bad as I initially expected,” he assured and allowed my hand to slide from his. I gingerly drew the appendage to my chest as he continued, “Still, I should like to have another look once it has been cleansed.”

In all honesty, I had half the mind to argue with him, thinking that, as a native of the twenty-first century, I should know a thing or two about basic first-aid--enough to slap some anti-bacterial cream and a bandage on a couple of scratches, anyway. Another peek down at the torn and bloody flesh of my forearm, however, almost made me reconsider Aragorn’s offer: It looked pretty nasty. Nevertheless, my pride won out and I merely agreed to his request with an offhand shrug and a muttered, “Sure.”

Apparently satisfied by my quick capitulation, the man turned and beckoned me to follow him. “Come. I will take you back to the others.”

“What about him?” I asked, tilting my head towards the elf that still knelt at the water’s edge. 

“He will find his way,” answered the Ranger, casting a wry sort of smile at Legolas, who glanced fleetingly at us over his shoulder. 

“Yes, and I shall find my way through fen and field,” the son of Thranduil remarked drolly as he returned to his task, “which is more than you can say, Ranger.” The retort caused Aragorn to chuckle--and me to balk--before he offered the Prince a congenial reply in the Elven tongue.

While Legolas’ silvery laughter rang across the shore, I watched the pair engage in lighthearted banter and, all at once, I was struck by the knowledge that these beings--this elf and man--were, indeed, very real. They lived and breathed; loved, laughed, fought, and mourned, just as surely as anyone from my world. With that realization, any lingering doubt as to their identities and the actuality of this world truly being Middle-Earth evaporated. In its place, though, there lay only a bleak sense of acceptance. Bleak because I knew that, even in the company of the Nine Walkers, I was, without a doubt, completely and totally alone in this strange, new realm. What was even worse about the situation was the unfortunate possibility that I could bring said realm down about our ears if I breathed too loudly. 

_I’m so in over my head…_

“My lady?” I jolted from my uneasy reverie at Aragorn's enquiry. Giving myself a mental shake, I looked up to find the Dúnadan gazing back at me, a quizzical expression on his face. I'd been staring off into space for some time, it seemed, and the Ranger grew concerned. “Is something the matter?” 

“No,” I answered a bit too quickly to be completely credible and I fought back a wince when Aragorn’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. I rallied quickly, at any rate, and, offering him a feeble smile, I insisted, “No, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Naturally, I kept the “if you disregard the fact that I’m a walking catastrophe in the making--“ comment to myself. 

I’d venture to say that the Man didn’t believe a word I said, but he posed no further questions, and, instead, slated me one last searching glance and said, “Let us return then.”

The camp was oddly silent when Aragorn and I stepped into the sheltered hollow of land he and Legolas had discovered early that morning. As I followed the Ranger across the dell to the tiny campfire at its center, I felt the weight of seven pairs of inquisitive eyes immediately fall on me. Yet, no one said a word. They just stared and the brunt of their regard caused an unsettling sort of warmth to spread up the column of my neck towards my face.

Discomfited by the attention, I caught Gandalf’s gaze and, raising my chin, asked bluntly, “What?”

“We are merely admiring the change,” he claimed, lifting a bushy brow. “However, might I ask what became of your garment?” He gestured somewhat awkwardly to my upper body.

Confused, I blinked, then dropped my eyes to my torso, and instantly discerned the reason for everyone’s gawking: I still wore what I realized was a rather skimpy camisole for the presence of so many members of the male persuasion (prudish ones, at that) and which left the entirety of my arms, shoulders, and collarbones bare. Albeit, under normal circumstances, I would’ve felt completely impenitent for wearing such a thing, but, with the “Great Moll Debate,” as I’d dubbed it, still fresh in my memory, I figured that I would, at the very least, make an effort to appear somewhat reticent.

The minor detail that I was freezing half to death made the endeavor a little easier to endure.

“Um…yeah, sorry about that,” I muttered, dropping the sodden remains of my henley to the ground by the fire before wrapping my arms around myself. 

“Oh, here, child," the Wizard huffed in exasperation, "before you catch your death.” Swooping down, he seized the blanket from what I assumed was my bedroll and drew it around my shoulders without so much as a “by-your-leave.”

Chastised, but a bit irritated by the old man's high-handedness, I gripped the edge of the blanket to pull it a bit tighter around my frame and murmured a grudging, “Thanks.”

“You are welcome, child,” replied Gandalf gruffly and I could feel his gaze as he looked me up and down once more. “I see you have not yet seen to your arm as you said you would.”

“I’m working on it…” I assured him. At his arched brow, I quickly added, "sort of." I turned to the pile of baggage that sat to one side of the dell. "I don't suppose you know where my--?" I shifted back to look at the Wizard, only to find Aragorn standing in his place, one hand clutching the strap of my backpack. "Oh. Er...thank you." I accepted the bag and, settling down on my bedding, set about cleaning and bandaging my arm.

Locating the first aid kit I'd packed proved a difficult task. My possessions were in complete disarray, and I frowned as I came to the conclusion that they had been pawed through, most likely by curious Hobbit hands. Granted, while I was none too pleased about having my privacy so deliberately invaded, I chose to let the offence slide as I began to process of re-ordering my effects. At least now I'd discovered how they'd managed to get their paws on my iPod.

_Well, that's one mystery solved,_ I supposed. 

After pulling out the copy of Homer's Iliad I'd been re-reading for the third time and sitting it to one side, I located my only spare clothes—a pair of black cropped pants and a soft, green t-shirt I'd slept in my last night at the cabin--balled up at the bottom of the bag. Appreciative of that timely stroke of luck, I seized the shirt and shook it out roughly before pulling it over my head. Although it wasn't exactly cold-weather raiment, it would do. 

Upon further digging, I discovered my cell phone buried underneath a zip-lock bag filled with trail mix, a pair of clean socks, and a pack of tissues. Those would have come in handy earlier, I speculated as I rooted around in hopes of locating my car keys, which were conspicuously absent. My pocket sketchbook was also missing-in-action, which really irritated me, but I guess I should have been grateful that the culprit hadn't the presence of mind to unearth the feminine hygiene products tucked inside one of the smaller pockets.

Thank heavens for small favors.

I just wasn't up for explaining the mechanics of a tampon to the unenlightened.

Finally finding the small, cross-marked container at the bottom of my backpack, I opened it to reveal a box of bandages, a tube of anti-bacterial cream, two rolls of cotton gauze, a pair of small surgical scissors, tape, and a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol. The rest of my things I carefully returned to their former order in the depths of my pack and then sat the satchel behind me where I could keep an eye on it.

“Lady Kelly.” At the sound of my name, I looked up at Aragorn, who proceeded to place a small, wooden bowl filled with warm water and a clean cloth on the ground in front of me. A pungent, yet oddly pleasant medicinal scent drifted to my nose. “I have prepared a bath for your wounds," he explained. "Use it to cleanse them."

I stared down at the dish for a few cautious moments before lifting it into my lap. Breathing in the sweet scent, I felt the constant ache that riddled my skull start to dissipate and, sighing in relief, I closed my eyes. If nothing else, the draught eased some of my weariness. 

“Thank you,” I said as I offered the Ranger a slight smile and picked up the cloth. Ringing out some of the excess liquid, I began to dab at the abrasions, clearing away as much blood and filth as possible. Aragorn sank to the ground next to me while I worked and we sat in silence for a long time before I ventured to break the peace.

“So, what happens now?” I asked without withdrawing from my task. It was a vague, awkward question, but, to tell you the truth, I didn't know how to act around any member of the Fellowship at that point. I’d been fighting the reality of my circumstances for so long that I felt strangely bereft without the fire of incredulity to fuel my temper. Of course, said temper was essentially the root of my present disquiet, seeing as I'd been nothing save insolent and brash, if not downright boorish, since stumbling into their company. Frankly, I was rather ashamed of my behavior, especially towards the son of Arathorn.

"We will rest here for the remainder of the day," replied Aragorn as he drew his pipe from the folds of his cloak and began to pack it with the dregs of a dried plant he pulled from a pouch on his belt. I wondered absently if it was Old Toby, Longbottom Leaf, or some kind of bizarre Elvish pipe weed that Mr. Tolkien had never bothered to mention. Of course, I had no idea if Elves even indulged in the disgusting habit in the first place, but it made interesting food for thought.

I snapped back to attention when the man went on, "Gandalf has decided that we shall not continue until tomorrow evening, after the party has had ample time to recoup and recover strength. Then we shall make for the Dimrill Dale by way of the Redhorn Gate." 

His answer wasn't exactly encouraging, considering that, although it had been quite a long time since I'd last watched The Lord of the Rings films and even longer still since I'd read the books, I seemed to recall a great deal of snow and anguish in that mountain pass. I couldn't remember the specifics-- _Oh, sure. You can remember all fifty-seven of Aragorn's names, but you can't be bothered to recall whether or not frostbite looms in the near future_ \--and I racked my brain, trying to dredge up long forgotten details. 

Of course, there was also that miniscule issue of what affect my presence might have on the outcome of things, if it had any at all. Just as I'd told Gandalf, I had the potential to be a very real danger to Middle-Earth and one slip of the tongue or one wrong move on my part could spell disaster.

"And then where?" I asked the question only to direct my mind away from increasingly disconcerting paths of thought.

Here Gandalf interrupted and nearly startled me out of my wits when he swooped out of nowhere. "To the end of the journey--in the end, of course," the Wizard said.

I blinked up at him and clarified. "I meant where will we go when we leave the Dimrill Dale?" Admittedly, I knew the answer to my own query. I was well aware that we would eventually end up in Lothlorien by route of Moria and something told me that Gandalf perceived it as well, if the long stare I earned in response was any indication.

"Where ever the road leads us, my girl," he remarked at last and I scowled at the cavalier response. 

"Gee, that's ever so helpful, Gandalf," I grumbled, dropping the now blood-stained cloth back into the bowl in my lap and holding my arm up for my own perusal. The dirt and dried blood having been cleared away, the cuts looked much better, but I decided against taking any unnecessary chances. So I sat Aragorn's infusion aside and pulled the bottle of alcohol from the first aid kit.

Aragorn and Gandalf watched in unmasked curiosity as I picked up the cloth once more and squeezed as much water out of it as possible before dousing it in antiseptic. After taking a breath to steel myself against the anticipated sting, I pressed the damp compress to my arm.

“Son of a---“I trailed off in a hiss as my teeth clenched and my eyes squeezed shut. “Jesus, that stings.” Gandalf chuckled. I glowered at him accordingly and snarled, "It's not funny!"

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw Aragorn pick up the plastic bottle from its place near my feet and turn it over in his hands. I watched him warily as he studied it in barely concealed fascination and berated myself for being so overtly careless in parading my belongings in his presence. Doing such would serve only to fuel both his curiosity and the risk of my being forced to answer uncomfortable questions.

Still, I almost felt justified when he unscrewed the lid, took an experimental sniff, and then jerked back with a grimace at the astringent smell. “What in the name of Arda is this concoction?” he asked, aghast. 

I smirked. "Alcohol," I answered. "It's used to clean and disinfect wounds."

“Indeed?” He placed the container back on the ground beside me. “The scent reminds me of strong spirits.”

“It should. It’s the same sort of thing you would find in ‘spirits,'" I explained, nodding towards the bottle, "only I wouldn’t suggest drinking that stuff. It'd probably kill you." Both Wizard and Ranger gaped at me, no doubt unnerved by the nonchalant warning. I, however, disregarded the expressions on their faces and, instead, removed the cloth from my forearm to examine the abrasions. Glancing at Aragorn, I held out my hand. “You said you wanted to have a look at my arm before I bandaged it up?”

Taking the proffered appendage, he peered down at it critically and then nodded in approval a few moments later. "You will have to clean and re-dress these wounds every day for the next few days," he explained. "They are not serious, but I will not run the risk of having them fester whilst we are so far out in the Wild.” Releasing my hand, the Man sat back. “As for now, it grows late. You should eat and take some rest. You have had a hard go of things these last days.”

"I won't disagree with you there," I concurred while I finished spreading a thin layer of antibiotic ointment over the scrapes before wrapping a bandage around my forearm. "I'm beat." If the Ranger found the reference to my current physical state odd, he didn't comment and, instead, rose from his seat beside me. Crossing the campsite, he crouched beside the meager fire. I watched the Man curiously, though I couldn't quite see what he was doing from my position.

"He grows restless," Gandalf spoke again, and I tilted my head back to stare up at him as he leaned against his staff and returned my curious stare.

"Restless?" I echoed, looking back to Aragorn in alarm. "Why? What's wrong?"

Gandalf frowned as he, too, studied the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. "It is this place. Eregion was once the home to many of the Firstborn and the land does not soon forget the Elves, even centuries after their passing. But, now, a strange sense of disquiet fills the air; the silence is disturbing to one who has traversed this land so many times in the past." 

"Now that you mention it," I murmured, "it does seem unnaturally quiet around here." Suddenly suspicious, I shifted my gaze back to Gandalf and asked, "You know something, don't you? Or you know that I know something?"

The Maia's piercing eyes bore into mine. "Do you 'know something,' as you so eloquently put it?" 

I arched a brow without missing a beat. "I thought I was only supposed to mentioned it 'in the direst of need?'"

"Then I must conclude that we have not yet reached such a calamitous moment that you should seek to share your knowledge," he rejoined. 

When I realized that the old man had quite cheerfully maneuvered me into a corner, I scowled and grumbled, "That was dirty, Gandalf." I received only a mild smile in response before the Wizard turned from me and moseyed over to join the Hobbits in conversation.

"My lady?" inquired Aragorn, returning to my side while handing me a covered dish and something wrapped in coarse cloth. A peek beneath the cover revealed a bowl of what appeared to be stew--probably made from rabbit, judging from the coloring of the meat. The cloth held a thick piece of bread; it was bit hard, but edible.

"I really wish you wouldn't call me that," I groused. "My name is Kelly." 

Aragorn arched a brow. "My apologies. I had no idea it bothered you so badly." He gestured to the bowl I still held between my hands. "Please eat."

My stomach grumbled in appreciation when I removed the cover and caught the scent of what might actually pass for real sustenance. While I wasn't entirely down with the concept of eating or drinking anything provided by a relative stranger, I was sensible enough to accept that Aragorn wasn't going to poison me, considering any such attempt would entirely undermine his apparent objective of keeping me alive. Besides, I hadn't eaten a proper meal in nearly three days and I was absolutely starving. 

"It's not that it bothers me really," I explained as I ripped a chunk of bread from the lump that rested on my knee. "It's just...weird. We don't use that form of address where I'm from."

"Forgive me, Lady Kelly, but I fear you may be forced to grow accustomed to it," he disclosed. "'Tis the manner of discourse in this land."

His statement only added to the feeling of displacement that niggled at me and I said nothing for a minute, merely stared at my food, before I heaved a sigh. "I guess you're right, but I hope you're not terribly offended if I don't call you 'my lord' or whatever all the time."

Aragorn shook his head. "I assure you that I shan't be, though there are others you might encounter who would prefer the use of their proper title."

His answer immediately brought to mind the argument that I'd witnessed earlier that morning. "I'm not calling him 'lord,' Aragorn," I refused flat out while viciously dunking the bread into my stew. 

The Ranger fixed me with a stern look. "Now, Lady Kelly, be reasonable." At this demand, I shot him a glance that clearly asked "when have you ever known me to be reasonable?" and he sighed prior to continuing, "Legolas is the prince of a great kingdom of Elves--one of the last on these shores. He should be offered proper respect."

"Respect?" I barked incredulously. "He was this close--" I jerked up a hand to demonstrate just how close I'd come to becoming a human shish-kabob by showing only the slightest space between my thumb and forefinger-- "to killing me. I don't know how things are done around here, but where I'm from that kind of thing doesn't exactly inspire someone's good opinion." Spying the deep frown that settled on the Ranger's face in reaction to my protest, I took a calming breath and shook my head. "Elf or not, respect is something earned, not freely given. I will offer him proper regard when I'm shown it in return." Aragorn seemed about to argue, but I forestalled him when I went on to say, "I won't do anything to make the situation any worse, I swear." 

_Or, at least, not intentionally,_ I added mentally.

"I hope that will be enough," replied Aragorn. "Even now, he is most upset."

"I know," I admitted quietly, "and I'm sorry."

The Dúnadan smiled, his sea-gray eyes warming. "Think not of it, my lady. 'Tis no true fault of yours." 

"No, I'm pretty sure it's entirely my fault, but if you want to believe that it isn't, then that's your prerogative," I answered with a shrug. Finishing off the last of my meal, I rose. "What should I do with this?" I asked, gesturing to the empty bowl in my hand. 

"I'll take it, miss," a small voice offered. "It's mine and Pip's turn to do the washing up." I turned around to find one of the Hobbits standing behind me. He stared up at me with wide, hazel eyes beneath a mop of umber curls and offered to take the dish from my grasp. Startled that one of the shy creatures had actually spoken to me, I handed it over without disagreement. "Name's Merry, by the way," he continued. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service." 

I couldn't stop the delighted smile that stole over my lips. "I'm Kelly. Kelly Day." 

The Hobbit returned my grin with a toothy one of his own. "Pleasure to meet you, my lady," he said, bowing. 

"And you, good sir," I returned and I might have dropped a curtsey if I hadn't thought it would appear so utterly cheeky and, not to mention, completely ridiculous.

"On with you then, Meriadoc," Gandalf cut in again from across the way. "The day wanes."

_Has it really only been a few hours?_ My mind whirled with thoughts of everything that had happened since sunrise.

The Hobbit nodded and, giving me one last brief smile, returned to his compatriots. Then he and another tawny-haired Hobbit that I assumed was Peregrin Took gathered the remains of the breakfast dishes and headed down the path to the stream. Boromir, who had not so much as looked at me since I'd caught him and the others gawking at me earlier, followed in their wake. As he passed by, however, he cast me an appraising glance prior to disappearing into the brush.

While everyone began to settle into what had, for them, become routine over the last several weeks of travel, the Wizard turned his attention to me. "And you, my girl, must sleep. I daresay you look fairly done in," he observed. 

As if on cue, my body chose that very moment to reveal its weariness by means of a jaw-popping yawn. "Yeah, I daresay I am," I agreed.

"Take some rest then," said Aragorn, standing. "I think I shall take a walk upon the ridge." I watched him go, my unease growing with the Man's obvious agitation. 

I turned to Gandalf and pointed out, "One of us should go with him." 

"Nay," replied the Wizard, packing his pipe, then lighting it and taking a long draw. Two small, bluish smoke rings precluded his saying, "We shall leave him be for the moment. He needs the time," Gandalf arched an eyebrow at me, "and you, girl, need to rest awhile. You shall have no such opportunity in the future." Pressing my lips into a thin line, I cast one last concerned glance in the direction of the ridge, sighed, and settled down.

Unfortunately, my first real foray into oblivion in days was short-lived. I'd slept for perhaps an hour or maybe two before I found myself shocked into sudden wakefulness by someone seizing me roughly by the arm and literally yanking me to my feet. The perpetrator then proceeded to shove me rather unceremoniously into a patch of thorny brush in the shadow of two twisted holly trees. 

"Ouch!" I yelped, only to be rewarded with a strong, slender hand clamping over my mouth. For the briefest second, I panicked and thrashed, my mind clouded with the residue of sleep and swiftly growing terror. 

"Be still," the melodious voice of Legolas hissed in my ear and I very nearly followed through with the notion of sinking my teeth into the fleshy part of his palm that covered my lips.

I thought better of it, though, and, growing more irate by the second, I reached up to pry his hand away, snarling, "What the Hell are you doing, you lunatic?"

"Hush, woman," the Elven prince snapped, "We must not be seen." I blinked and twisted my head just enough to glower at him from the corner of my eye. He met my glare evenly and, by way of the hand that wasn't being used to pin me against his wiry frame, pointed to the southern sky. In the distance, I spotted an ominous brume that wheeled and swelled as it drew swiftly towards our resting place. 

"What on earth..." I trailed off under my breath as I watched the cloud grow. Legolas offered no response: He merely drew me farther back into the shelter of the bracken. I wisely chose to remain silent as the sound of hundreds of flapping wings soon reached my ears. 

Then, suddenly, I remembered.

_The Crebain..._

Flying low and circling over us several times, a large faction of the flock suddenly broke away from the primary host and approached the ridge. I held my breath while the birds' shadow passed and then swept away. 

The Elf and I waited until the creatures faded away into the north and west and the sky cleared again before we emerged from our hiding place. Stepping out into the center of dell, I nearly jumped out of my skin when Aragorn suddenly sprang up from the ground behind a nearby holly-bush while Sam slowly rose from behind him. The Ranger frowned as he came to stand beside the Prince of Mirkwood and me. 

"Crebain from Fangorn and Dunland. They are not natives of this land," he explained grimly as he looked the two of us over. "Were either of you spotted?"

"I think not," answered Legolas while I just shook my head. 

There was a great deal of rustling around in the bush as the others emerge from their own refuges. The Hobbits gathered together quickly, sinking in the shelter provided by the intertwined boughs of several holly trees, as Boromir and Gimli took up the guard. Aragorn and Legolas convened with Gandalf; the Elf and Man spoke in quiet Elvish as the Wizard nodded occasionally, a pensive expression on his face. Meanwhile, I simply retreated to my bedroll and curled up with the thick, woolen blanket to "wait out the storm," as it were.

Due to the shortened days of winter, the light had already begun to fade into the long shadows of late afternoon and there was a bitter chill in the air that I quickly realized wasn't due solely to the season. Dread curled in the pit of my stomach. Soon, I knew, we would have to leave the relative safety of the Hollin camp and, from there on out, things would only get worse. I was so completely unprepared for what lie ahead. The thought of traversing Caradhas with its deep snow and ice and then through the black of Moria with its dark paths, sprawling caverns, and Orcs...

_And the Balrog..._

My breath caught at the sudden recollection of what we would soon face in the so-called "Black Pit." Gandalf would fall--a forbidding thought, even though I knew he would eventually return--and who knew what would happen from there. Then again, that was assuming events played out as they were supposed to.

_What will I do if things don't go as they should? What if Gandalf doesn't return? If Frodo is lost and Sauron regains the Ring? Or if Aragorn falls? What if the Shadow wins?_ Fingering the dark wool wrapped around me, I chewed anxiously on my lip as my mind whirled with possibilities, each more grim than the last. _What if--_

"Lady Kelly?" Aragorn derailed my descent into hysterics with his usual effectiveness. I snapped my head up to stare at him and swallowed the surprised yelp that threatened to break free of my throat.

"Yes?" I inquired far more calmly than I felt.

"You seem distressed," was the Ranger's gentle response. "What troubles you?"

I released a huff of a laugh and felt a wry grin tug at my lips. "A great many things trouble me, Aragorn," I answered pointedly as I dropped the blanket from my shoulders and rose. "So what's the plan then? Are we moving out soon?"

"Nay, we will wait for nightfall and then make for Caradhas," explained Aragorn after a moment of searching my face. "Until then, however, we must make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible lest the Crebain return, as they surely will."

And so all the rest of that day we remained in hiding. I slept fitfully, on and off, throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening. Whenever I woke, I peered out from the tangled copse of holly and vine wood where I'd made my hiding place and watched the dark birds retrace their path overhead. The Hobbits sat in silence nearby and I caught a cursory glance in my direction every once in a while, but none of them ventured to speak. The others held their peace as well, watching and waiting for twilight.

Then, at dusk, when the sun's last light still shown faintly red on the distant mountain's face, we broke camp and, with wary steps, set out towards the east.


	8. Caradhas, the Cruel

A Road Less Traveled 

Rating: M 

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the character, places, or situations affiliated with it. They are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien and I am making absolutely no money from this venture.

***

_Find a happy place. Find a happy place. Find a happy place!_ These words had become something of a mantra over the last few hours. Snow of the wet, heavy variety that clings with a vengeance had begun to fall in earnest sometime after midnight and it covered everything in the immediate vicinity in a thick, white blanket.

Us, included.

I shivered violently as I trudged along the narrow path behind the Hobbits while they struggled through snow that was already nearly to the knees of anyone under four feet tall. Hitherto, we had been fortunate in that the weather had remained rather mild--it had been chilly, yet, mercifully, free of rain or snow--for the season, particularly the farther south we traveled, but it had taken a turn for the worst the night prior.

For three days we had held an easterly course. Guided by Aragorn along what appeared to be the remains of an ancient road that led from Hollin to the mountain-pass, we struck a good path that first night. The light of the moon, now at full, illuminated pavestones that looked to have once been worked by skilled hands, yet now lay upturned and tumbled--cast about like a child's toys in the wake of a tantrum. In the gloom, they cast eerie shadows in what was a land entirely bereft of any living thing save winter birds.

The lonesome setting somehow unnerved me, even more so when, in the hour just before dawn when the night was at its darkest and the moon low, something seemed to pass overhead and smother the stars. It lasted a mere heartbeat, yet the sensation left me shuddering and I glanced askance at Gandalf, who paused fleetingly to stare at the sky.

"What on earth was that?" I murmured as I tugged my cloak a bit closer to my body: I had gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Yes, did you see anything pass over?" one of the Hobbits--Frodo, I realized--asked.

"No," the Wizard answered, "but I felt it. It was likely nothing. A wisp of cloud, perhaps?"

"It was moving fast then," said Aragorn ominously as he stepped by us, "and against the wind."

"Well, thank you, Aragorn, for that cheerful observation," I groused a bit too loudly and received a sharp glance from Gandalf for my trouble. The son of Arathorn, on the other hand, simply ignored me.

Thankfully, there were no further encounters of the creepy kind--at least, none that night--and the next day dawned bright, clear, and absolutely frigid. With the arrival of morning, the wind began to turn back towards the east and took with it any semblance of warmth. Weary from the night's bitter march, we halted and settled down for the day in the shelter of a barren hillock. The next two days carried out in much the same manner: March by moon's light and rest by the sun's.

On the third day, when we reached the foot of Caradhas and gazed upon its blood-colored slopes, I lounged on the ground across from the son of Denethor and listened with a smile while Merry and Pippin recounted a rather "sordid" tale concerning a farmer from the Southfarthing, a goat, and the mayor of Michel Delving. Seated on a stone as he tended to the metal boss on the great shield he carried, Boromir chuckled at Pippin's rather remarkable impression of a drunken stagger before the Hobbit tripped and landed on his backside. His muffled "oomph" and subsequent wince when he scrambled to his feet had Merry and me snickering and ducking our heads to hide guilty grins as the young Took made a face at us. Soon enough, though, Pippin shrugged, took a bow as if to say "my work here is done," and plopped--well, as easily as one with a sore hind-end can "plop--" down beside his cousin.

For the time being, all seemed well with life amid the Fellowship of the Ring. Apparently, one good thing had come of our flight to Caradhas and that was the fact that no longer was I treated as though I were something nasty found stuck to the bottom of someone's shoe. Instead, I discovered that I had, for the most part, been accepted into the fold, such as it was.

Of course, that's not to say that I wasn't still regarded with some suspicion. I wasn't ignorant of the guarded stares I continued to receive from Boromir, Gimli, Legolas, and the Hobbits. For his part, the Steward's son, like Merry and Pippin, now seemed more curious of me than truly wary. Even so, he seldom conversed with me, other than to comment on my "oddness" whenever I said or did something he thought strange. More often than not, though, he merely watched me, a cautious glint in his gaze, and uttered nothing at all.

Adversely, Gimli and Legolas continued to regard me with something very much akin to disdain, if not downright dislike. Whereas Gimli complained loudly about everything from the delay my presence often caused to the way I ate my breakfast, the Elven Prince never spoke of or to me, unless he had no other option. His constant silence and the manner in which his brilliant sapphire eyes followed my every move were more than little discomfiting.

The younger two of our Hobbit companions, on the other hand, held no such compulsions. Merry and Pippin indulged their curiosity frequently and, usually, with little reverence for whatever warnings concerning me Gandalf had given them prior to our leaving Hollin. Generally, I answered their questions to the best of my ability, but, oftentimes, I could only shake my head and reply with something to the effect of "it is the way of my homeland."

When their badgering got really out of control, as it did on one occasion when Pippin innocently inquired as to whether or not all the women of my country dressed like men, Gandalf demanded that they leave me be, lest they face his ire. Pippin had swallowed nervously and nodded quickly before backing off and shooting the Wizard a frightened glance. Needless to say, they kept their inquisitiveness well under wraps after that threat.

Those instances aside, things had settled considerably. The peace remaining kept, however, relied mostly on my being as unobtrusive as possible. Therefore, I spent the majority of my time catching whatever sleep I could manage when our party stopped to rest; eating the frugal rations Aragorn offered me; or simply sitting in silence and watching the others go about their business.

Every now and again, when sleep made itself elusive and I found myself gazing thoughtfully at what was an utterly foreign sky, Gandalf would sit beside me and inquire about my world and my life before my arrival in Middle-earth, but never did these conversations stray into what I had come to regard as "forbidden territory." That is, never did he ask about the future of Middle-earth or the outcome of the Quest, and never did these discussions--if you could call them that--occur within earshot of any other members of our party.

Be that as it may, our exchanges were often stilted, which was due primarily to the fact that I refused to divulge too much concerning the "Other World," as the Wizard had taken to calling it. While a goodly amount of my refusal was likely spawned from sheer spite (I still hadn't quite forgiven the Wizard for ordering me tied up), the rest stemmed from the very real fear that I might slip up and say something better left unsaid.

"I think no good of our course from beginning to end," Aragorn's keen voice caught my ears. My attention torn from the Steward's son and his companions, I twisted slightly to peer at the Wizard and Ranger from the corner of my eye and listened as Aragorn went on, "And perils both known and unknown will plague us as we continue. But continue we must, and no good will come of our delaying the passage through the mountains. You know this, Gandalf."

"Of course," replied the Maia, "and I do not ask that we delay our quest any more than can be helped. Nevertheless, I fear the wisdom in taking the high road through the mountains. We may well be seen by watchers on that narrow way, and, hence, waylaid by some evil, but the weather may yet prove our most deadly adversary." The Wizard's robes rustled as he leaned closer to the son of Arathorn and dropped his voice, "But there is another way--a secret way--not by the pass of Caradhas. We have spoken of it before."

Aragorn's stern tone caused me to blink in surprise. I had no idea the Dúnadan could sound so fierce as he said, "Yes, we have and I beg that we do not speak of it again! Not yet. Not unless it is apparent there is no other way."

Despite the Ranger's obvious distress concerning the topic of roads, Gandalf still wheedled at him. "We must decide before continuing." He rose and Aragorn followed suit. "You know my thoughts on the matter."

"Indeed," the Ranger retorted. "Even so, let us weigh the matter in our minds, while the others rest." With that, Aragorn and Gandalf parted, each taking separate positions across our camp as the others and I prepared to bed down for the day.

Sleep was slow in coming.

The air between Aragorn and Gandalf remained tense after their disagreement, though by the time the late afternoon rolled around and we sat finishing a meager repast of dried venison and fruit, it became evident that a decision had been reached. The Wizard and Ranger had gone aside and, together, stood looking at the dull crimson face of Caradhas for nearly an hour, and I watched them speak quietly between themselves.

Once the pair broke conference, Gandalf came to stand before us. "We will continue as we have these last days--to the Redhorn Gate," he explained, though I could tell he wasn't terribly pleased, if the tick in his jaw was any indication. "I fear the pass may be watched and, even more so, that snow may come. Thus, we must make haste. As it is, it shall take us more than two marches before we reach the top of the pass." He gazed at each of us in turn. "We must leave as soon as you are able."

Here Boromir added his counsel. "A word of advice, if I may," he began as he raised a hand for our attention. "I was born under the shadow of the White Mountains and know something of journeys in high places. Bitter cold shall greet us there, if no worse, before we reach the other side. When we leave here, where there are still a few trees and bushes, each of us should carry a faggot of wood, as large as he can bear."

"And Bill could take a bit more, couldn't you, lad?" interjected Sam, patting the pony's neck. Bill looked less than thrilled at the prospect of more baggage.

"Very well," Gandalf acquiesced grudgingly. "But we must not use it--not unless we come to a choice between fire and death." That said, the Wizard spun on his heel and walked away, taking up a rigid stance at the edge of camp where he returned to gazing darkly at the mountain above us.

"Well, he's in a right mood, isn't he?" I asked no one in particular. Pippin, who sat on the ground nearby while he broke his fast, snickered.

"I should say that I am, indeed, in a 'right mood,'" the Maia called over his shoulder as he shot me a pointed glare, and I smiled at him innocently. I then proceeded to make a face at his back when he turned to face the peak once more. "No good will come of this course," he concluded frankly and then suggested most seriously, "Mayhap I should freeze your face that way, child, if the weather does not succeed in doing so first."

Called out, I scowled.

"Better snow and cold than darkness unknown," proclaimed Aragorn grimly as he disregarded that last exchange between the Wizard and me. He then moved to collect a pair of beaten leather bags from Bill's back and, gesturing to me, said, "Come, Lady Kelly, you must prepare for the journey across the pass." I chanced one last look at the surly Istar before shaking my head and joining the Ranger.

"You will need warmer garments if you are to face the bite of Caradhas," explained the Dúnadan, withdrawing a piece of bundled black cloth from one of the sacks. Shaking it out, he held it up for my scrutiny.

It was a tunic.

Travel-worn and, yet, well-made, the garment was clearly intended for a man's larger frame: As I brushed my fingers over the fine stitching and sparse embroidery around the collar, I couldn't help but think that the thing would swallow me. Still, it looked warm (far more so than my t-shirt, that's for sure) and, when I took it into my hands, I found the woolen vestment smelled slightly of something like mint. It was a somewhat comforting sort of scent and one I immediately recognized, considering how often I'd come into contact with its source.

"This is yours, isn't it?" I asked, staring down at the shirt in my grasp. Feeling very awkward all of a sudden, I looked up at the Ranger and immediately offered the article back to him. "I can't. You might need it."

Aragorn smiled. "Nay," he replied, overlooking my protest. "Though I appreciate your concern on my behalf, I daresay that you will need the garment more than I. As Boromir said, we shall meet bitter cold in the mountain pass and your current raiment will provide little protection from such conditions." Pressing the cloth more firmly into my grasp, he pushed the tunic towards me. "Please. Take it. You needn't worry that you deprive me. Lord Elrond made sure that our party was well prepared for winter's wrath."

While I honestly wouldn't put it past the son of Arathorn to be selfless enough to freeze himself half to death for my benefit--a notion that I still couldn't quite wrap my head around as I distinctly recalled several episodes involving flying elbows and/or curses on his house--I opted to simply accept his offer. By that point, I knew better than to argue with him, seeing that no amount of obstinacy on my part had ever swayed him before and was unlikely to do so now. Sighing, I removed my cloak, slipped the tunic over my head, and found myself the recipient of a smirk courtesy of the son of Arathorn when the shirt's hem fell below my knees.

"Ha, ha. Laugh it up, buddy," I grumbled while I pushed up sleeves that were several inches too long and tried to disregard the idea that I probably looked completely ridiculous.

"My apologies," said the Ranger, though his grin never faded. Sea-gray eyes traveled up and down my form before he said with much more gravity, "I'm afraid that a tunic and jacket is the best that I may provide to ward off the chill. I fear that, even alongside your cloak, they will not be enough to withstand the Redhorn in the throes of mid-winter."

He looked so distressed that I felt I had to say something to try and set him at ease. "I'll be fine, Aragorn," I assured him while offering him a slight smile of my own. "I'm tougher than I look."

_Says the girl who walks around in sweatpants in the middle of summer,_ the more cynical side of my mind made sure to make its opinion on my constitution known. _Hmph...who are you trying to kid, Kelly Elaine?_

You know, if ever there was a time I wish I could switch my brain to autopilot, that was one of them. As it was, my nerves grew ever more on edge the closer we drew to Caradhas and the more I thought on our expedition, the more rattled I became. There had even been one occasion (which occurred after I had spent a great deal of time dwelling on what awaited us and just how I was going to survive it) that my hands trembled so badly that I could scarcely hold the flask of water Aragorn handed me. Only after many inquiries from the Ranger regarding my health did I manage to take a long breath and push the matter to the back of my conscience.

"Let us hope your word holds true, lass," said Gimli gruffly as he hoisted one of the bundles of wood Boromir suggested we carry onto his back. "Caradhas holds no great love of those who would trespass upon his back." His beard twitched as he adopted an expression of thoughtfulness. "Though I wonder why we should choose such a dangerous road in the first place. We could much more easily pass beneath the mountains. For under them lies the realm of my cousin Balin; and there we would receive a hardy welcome, of that ye can be certain."

Hearing these words, I wondered if the Dwarf realized he had just neatly pierced the heart of the matter upon which all of Aragorn and Gandalf's arguments lay. I cast a wary glance at Aragorn, who had since returned his effects to their place on Bill's back and was in the process of checking over the pony's tack.

"Our course has been decided," the son of Arathorn stated with finality after giving Bill's halter one final tug. "We will go through the pass."

And, so, no more was said on the debate of mountains versus mines.

Or, at least, not until the night grew deadly dark and great, rolling clouds blotted out the moon that had been our constant companion since leaving Hollin. A biting wind that succeeded in wiggling its way inside every available gap in my clothing began to stir from the east, and I regularly found myself gritting my teeth against its gelid nipping when it skated across my flesh.

By midnight, we had managed to ascend to the knees of the mountains, though it had been rough going. Not long after we had set out, the path had grown steep and difficult and even vanished entirely in some places. Consequently, we were often forced to leap over deep fissures or slide down precariously steep grades to find our way: The disappearing act was especially entertaining when we reached a stretch where the road wound beneath a sheer rock wall on one side and a yawning ravine on the other.

_This is a bad idea,_ I concluded decisively as I picked my way along the winding path behind the son of Denethor, whose hulking form separated me from the Hobbits. _A really, really bad idea._ I scowled to myself and tugged my cloak tighter to my shivering frame as another gust of the icy wind accosted me. _Really._

"How fare you, Lady Kelly?" asked Aragorn, catching up and walking just behind me. He and Legolas had chosen to take up the rearguard for this march. Gandalf led the way with Gimli and the Hobbits close behind him.

Shooting the Dúnadan an irritable look over my shoulder, I squashed the desire to lash out and tell him exactly what I thought of his chosen route. Instead, I swallowed my frustration and said flatly, "I've been better."

I could practically feel the Ranger's sympathetic gaze on my back. "I am afraid that it shall only get worse from here," he informed me.

I stopped dead in my tracks and rounded on him in a sudden burst of temper. "'Worse?'" I echoed sharply. "How on earth could it possibly get 'worse'?"

I suppose I should have expected what happened next, seeing as Middle-earth seemed to suffer under the auspices of Murphy's Law as surely as my world. Indeed, "anything that can go wrong, will go wrong," and had I not been toiling up the side of a mountain towards certain hypothermia, I probably would have laughed at the sheer irony of the classic "you-spoke-to-soon--" situation.

As soon as I whipped back around to resume my trek, something feather-light and cold brushed gently against my face. Sudden dismay filled me when, lifting my head to stare up at the dark sky, I spied the glittering, white flakes that drifted down to settle on Boromir's broad shoulders and dark hair.

"You just had to go and open your mouth, didn't you?" I asked myself aloud and, swearing quite colorfully under my breath, I jerked the hood of my cloak over my head. "Just had to." My actions caused Aragorn to chuckle, but I was in no mood for whatever banter may have arisen thereafter.

Unfortunately, the son of Arathorn had been quite correct when he declared that our journey across Caradhas would grow only more trying the further we traveled. Although it began with just a few flurries, the snow now fell in sheets: It filled the air and obscured our vision even as we struggled on. Only for a brief moment when we paused for breath did the storm die down.

Shaking away the snow that had accumulated on my shoulders and hood, I raised my eyes to peer up at the sky. I frowned when I saw that the clouds continued to roll ominously and I felt more than heard Aragorn step up beside me.

"This is only a temporary reprieve," he said softly and I nodded in agreement, my gaze still on the heavens. "There will be more snow this night."

Sure enough, we had hardly moved on more than a few hundred yards when the weather returned with all the fury of a Hell beast: All of a sudden, simply walking became a herculean effort as the whistling wind and driving snow combined to become a furious blizzard. Blinded by the pelting ice, I closed my eyes, just to open them a moment later and gasp in horror as I discovered myself amid an utter whiteout. I couldn't see more than a foot around me in any direction.

My companions immediately lost to me due to the swirling snow, I took a bumbling step in the direction I hoped they were and cried out, "Aragorn!" There was no reply; my voice had been lost to the shrieking wind. A few more floundering steps across slippery stone nearly caused me to run face-first into the rock wall to my left. Whipping around, I fairly snarled, "Damn it! Where the Hell are you?"

Then, out of nowhere, a hand, strong and calloused, seized mine and gave me a sharp tug forward. Caught off guard, I stumbled, only to be caught by a pair of sturdy arms. "Careful, mistress," said the deep voice of Boromir in my ear and I couldn't help sagging against him in relief. After allowing me to reclaim my balance, the Steward's son released my shoulders and, instead, pressed a fold of his cloak into my hand. "Stay close now. Aragorn has gone ahead to assist the little ones and so has left you in my charge."

We pressed ahead, but, soon, even the doughty son of Denethor found it hard to keep going. The pounding ice and darkness made it practically impossible to see anything, and I caught sight of the Hobbits only when Boromir and I were almost on top of them. Their small forms were nearly doubled in half by the force of the storm.

The situation was compounded three-fold when stones, some ranging from the size of a marble to that of a basketball, began to tumble down the mountainside. Whistling over our heads, they crashed onto the path all around us, and I lunged away with a yelp of pained surprise when one struck my shoulder. As a result of that particular mishap, Boromir shifted so that I was sandwiched between him and the cliff face, and, therefore, protected from the Redhorn's onslaught. Although startled by this act, I had neither the time nor the inclination to consider the Man's sudden change in regard for me: I was merely grateful to have some shelter from Caradhas' rage.

"We cannot go any further tonight!" the Steward's son shouted over the din. Unable to endure anymore of the assault, our company had halted and currently stood with our backs pressed against the cliff side while listening to the unnatural noises that reverberated throughout the darkness around us. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the gale as it wound itself through the cracks and crevices of the stone wall behind us, but it seemed to me that there was mad laughter and shrill cries that echoed around the mountain and down its face.

"Call it the wind, if you will," exclaimed Boromir as if he had read my mind, "but there are fell voices on the air, I say! Caradhas seeks to drive us from his heights."

"What the Lord Steward says is truth," Gandalf announced. "We can go no further this night--in this storm most assuredly. We have but two choices; to stop where we are, or to go back. Only a little higher, this path will leave the cliff and we will find ourselves in a wide, shallow trough at the bottom of a hard slope. This is, if I remember rightly. There we will find no protection of any sort from the mountain's fury."

"And it will do us no good to turn back," said Aragorn, "not while the storm holds. We must simply wait it out." With that said, he herded the Hobbits as close to the cliff side as possible before hunkering down alongside them. He looked over at me where I trembled at Boromir's side. "Come. We will share our warmth."

I wanted to argue. I really did, but I had already lost feeling in my toes and the rest of my extremities weren't faring much better, so I forced myself to swallow whatever reservations I might have had concerning having my personal space invaded and sank to the ground beside him. Within seconds, I found myself wedged beneath the Ranger's left arm as he pulled me into his side. Gathering a pair of spare blankets from Bill's back, Boromir swiftly joined us and sat down on the other side of the Hobbits.

Needless to say, it was easily the most uncomfortable position I had ever been forced to tolerate because, to be honest, tramping about in the wilds with virtually no access to bathing facilities had left the majority of our party smelling more than a little ripe.

Well, that, and my backside had gone numb.

Nauseatingly enough, the only member of the company who did not appear even remotely troubled by the weather was Legolas, although he, too, lowered himself beside Boromir in order to add his own body heat to our impromptu snug-fest.

The snow continued to mount: It had already risen well above Bill's hocks as he stood dejectedly in front of the Hobbits. Unfortunately, the pony's frame provided them little haven from the rampant tempest, and I worried they might be buried entirely if the storm didn't let up soon. What was worse was that the cold had begun to truly affect them and, when Pippin, the Hobbit who sat next to me, began to droop drowsily, I reached over anxiously and shook him.

"Wake up, squirt," I said as he jerked upright and looked at me in alarm. "The last thing you want to do is fall asleep in this kind of weather. You might not wake up again." He nodded quickly and burrowed back into his cloak while nestling closer to Merry.

"The girl is right," said Boromir after he was forced to lift Frodo bodily from a nest of snow when the Ringbearer, like Pippin, began to succumb to the elements. "The storm grows worse." He shifted to look at Gandalf. "We cannot stay here, Gandalf. It will be the death of the Halflings."

The Wizard frowned in concern. "Give them this then," he ordered, searching through the satchel at his hip and withdrawing a leather flask. "Just a mouthful each--for all us. 'Tis _miruvor_ , the cordial of Imladris." He handed the flagon to Legolas, who took a sip before passing it on to Gimli.

When the container came to me a few minutes later, I hesitated only a second prior to tipping my head back and taking a mouthful of the liquor. Of course, by that point in time, I was willing to accept just about anything, if only it would offer some relief from the icy hands that clutched at me. I hissed as the cordial burned its way down my throat before its warmth began to spread to my limbs. Surprised and not a little unnerved, I flexed my fingers experimentally as sensation slowly returned to them.

The others, too, soon felt the strange, revitalizing effects of the miruvor. The Hobbits perked up almost immediately and shook themselves free of the sleep that dogged them. They appeared particularly pleased when Boromir suggested a fire be built. Of course, that task proved easier said than done, considering that all the wood we had carried from the foothills was soaked through and the wind continued to tear at us. In the end, it took Gandalf, his staff, and the most garbled mouthful of words I'd ever heard to accomplish the feat.

While the Wizard seemed none too happy about the possibility of our location having been revealed to unfriendly eyes, the rest of us delighted in the sight of a mere spark. What was even more amazing was that the snow and wind seemed to have no effect on the merry, little blaze of Gandalf's making.

Stamping my feet to stave off the chill, I spread my hands out towards the flames and asked, "How long till morning?"

"Hours yet," replied Aragorn. He sounded bleak. "I hope the wood will last." 

It did.

Barely.

The fire burned low by the time dawn, at last, began to creep over the snow-laden mountains. As heavy snow still fell, Legolas and Boromir tossed the remaining fuel onto the dying flames while I dosed lightly against Aragorn's shoulder. I refused to allow myself to fall completely into sleep and wrenched my eyes open every time I began to slide towards that perilous end. A glance over at the Hobbits revealed that they weren't much better off.

"Morning approaches," rumbled Aragorn. At the sound of his voice, I sat up straighter and rubbed my face in hopes of waking myself up. "The snow lessens."

Sure enough, as the muted light of day grew stronger, the storm started to pitter out. The wind lessened and the snow turned to large, fluffy flakes that danced almost playfully in the algid breeze. Finally, both stopped altogether and, rising to my feet beside Aragorn, I threw back the hood of my cloak to gaze over an endless sea of white.

"Whoa," I breathed, taking in the strangely silent landscape. Never had I seen a snowfall quite like this: It was as if a great, icy mantle had been spread across the mountain's back. The only area that remained bare was the scant circle surrounding the ashes of our fire. Beyond that, however, the snow lay many feet deep.

"Caradhas has paused for breath, it seems," observed Gimli, looking up at the sky and shaking his head. "Even so, he has not forgiven our trespass. Mark my words: He has more snow to fling at us. The sooner we go back and down the better."

"Agreed," replied Aragorn. "Though the return road may prove far more difficult than the one we encountered while venturing up the mountain's face."

He was right, of course. In some places, the snow reached breast-height and, as such, lay well above the heads of our Hobbit compatriots. Bearing that detail in mind, we stood for a few long moments and pondered over various methods as to how we might find a way down the mountainside.

"If Gandalf would go before us with a bright flame, he might melt a path for you," Legolas offered, a suggestion which made Gandalf snort.

"If Elves could fly over mountains, they might fetch the Sun to save us," the Wizard rejoined. "But I must have something to work on. I cannot burn snow."

"We must force a path, then," said Aragorn resolutely. "Come, Boromir!" With that, the pair of Men set off, Boromir leading the way for, while he was shorter, he was broader and heavier in build than the son of Arathorn.

I observed them as they fought their way down the incline, but a movement at the edge of my vision brought my attention to Legolas as he turned to the rest of us. "Let a ploughman plough," he said amusedly, "but choose an otter for swimming, and for running light over grass and leaf, or over snow--an Elf." Then, with effortless grace, he sprang forward and shot away. "Farewell," he called over his shoulder, "I go to find the Sun!"

Snapping my gaping jaw shut and crossing my arms petulantly, I scowled at his back as he disappeared into the distance and grumbled, "Show off." At Gandalf's side, Gimli huffed in agreement.

An hour passed while we waited for our so-called "ploughmen" to return. Not long after they vanished around a far bend, the wind began to pick up again, causing eddies of snow to swirl around us. Shifting nervously, the Hobbits huddled together behind Bill, who, once again, served as a buffer against the gale. A few glimmering, white flakes fluttered down to litter the pony's mane.

Just when I started to grow somewhat apprehensive of the shifting weather myself, a flash of gold over the rise captured my notice. A second later Legolas reappeared, followed by the sons of Arathorn and Denethor. The Elven Prince fairly glided over the snow as he ran--it was rather disgusting, especially when one saw how Aragorn and Boromir struggled up the slope.

"Well," the Elf exclaimed as he stopped before us, "I have not brought the Sun. She is walking in the blue fields of the South, and a little wreath of snow--" I snorted sarcastically at this immense understatement and received a glare in response--"on this Redhorn hillock troubles her not at all." He stretched out a nimble hand and gestured back the way he'd come. "There, just beyond that turn, lies the greatest wind-drift of all. Fortunately, it is little thicker than a wall, and on the other side the snow dwindles."

Gimli grunted. "I knew it," he growled. "Last night's tempest was no ordinary storm, but a contrivance of Caradhas!"

"Mayhap it was, Master Dwarf," agreed Boromir, who appeared with Aragorn at his side. Both were short of breath in the wake of their exertion. "Nevertheless, we have thrust a lane through the drift, for those who cannot run as light as Elves." Here the son of Denethor cast Legolas an irritable glance, which the Elf promptly ignored. Face lightening, he continued, "Still, those with shorter legs might find the way down a difficult path. We will have to bear the little folk." He motioned for Pippin to approach him. "Come, Master Peregrin! I shall begin with you."

The picture of the Hobbit clinging to the Steward's son broad back was one that I'm unlikely to ever forget. He looked vaguely like some kind of deranged limpet, especially when one took note of the grimace he sported, and Merry appeared very much the same as he clutched Aragorn's shoulders. Evidently, neither Hobbit appreciated being carted about in such a manner. Then again, I doubted neither the Steward's son nor the Chieftain of the Dúnedain made for a good steed.

Once Merry and Pippin had been delivered safely to the other side of the drift and the Men returned to retrieve Frodo and Sam, Gandalf faced Gimli, Legolas, and me. He had a contemplative look on his face, as if he were dealing with some great internal dispute. In the end, however, his gaze settled on the son of Glóin.

"Come now, Gimli, and mount up," said the Wizard as he started to clear a space among the gear on Bill's back. "I expect that you will not suffer to be born upon a Man's back like so much baggage."

"Too right," the Dwarf replied and clambered aboard.

Once Gimli was situated, Gandalf grasped Bill's reins and turned to Legolas. "If you could bring the girl, Thranduilion, I would be much obliged." He didn't bother to wait for the Prince's verbal compliance. He merely pivoted and led the pony with his Dwarven rider away.

Although I have to admit that I had wondered exactly how I might make my way back down the mountain when I myself was easily the shortest of our party--aside from Gimli and the Hobbits, that is. If what Boromir and Aragorn reported was true, the snow would rise to my eye-level in some areas, and the thought of making the journey down the mountain under my own power was a bit daunting.

Even so, I'd certainly never expected Gandalf to make such a request of Legolas, especially considering that the Wizard was well aware of my less than amicable relationship with Thranduil's son. Then again, perhaps he thought having Legolas assist me a better alternative in light of the Elf's perceptible dislike of Gimli. They may have become good friends in the later scheme of things, but, at that point in time, I didn't even want to think about the consequences of throwing those two together. Nothing good could possibly come of it.

Regardless, I could do little but gape in astonishment at the Wizard's retreating form until he shrank into nothingness. The reality of his demand hadn't quite managed to completely sink in, and it was only at the annoyed clearing of a throat that I turned to the Elven Prince. We eyed each other warily for a space of minutes before Legolas took a step towards me and I took a step back.

_No way in Hell..._ I declared silently. Perhaps I was being a bit silly in not allowing him to help me, but to be honest, I was more than a little intimidated by the son of the Elven King. After all, he had been more than ready to turn me into a human pincushion not a week prior.

You'll have to forgive me if I was a bit leery of him. 

A bark of laughter escaped my lips. "Not on your life, Elf," was all I said before I spun on my heel and set off after the others.

Unfortunately, I had hardly taken more than a few steps when I became so mired in the knee-deep snow that I lost my balance. Literally left without a foot to stand on, I careened--ass over teakettle--down the slope. For a moment, the world was a blur of gray and white, and I felt vaguely ill when I finally came to a stop in a place where the gradient evened out.

Stomach rolling, I lay flat on my back and waited for my equilibrium to return. A shout in Elvish heralded Legolas' arrival. I had no idea what he said, even as he stared down at me with that superior smirk of his. "You were saying?" he asked and I could hear laughter in his voice.

My head hadn't quite stopped spinning, but I managed to climb to my feet and shake the snow from my hair and clothes. Shooting the Elven Prince a vicious glare, I didn't bother dignifying his question with a response. Instead, I started to battle my way back towards the cleared path (my tumble had resulted in my landing some distance away) and tried valiantly to ignore my rising embarrassment. After that little episode, I'm not sure what hurt worse: my body or my pride.

Alas, it seemed that my life was destined to become one great comedy of errors. For as soon as I began pressing back up the incline, the world abruptly gave way in a rush of snow and stone. The last thing I heard was a panicked cry followed by a loud, rumbling roar, and then I was swallowed up by ice and darkness.


	9. The Road to Hell...

A Road Less Traveled

Rating: M

Disclaimer: While I may no longer be the poor, half-starved art student I once was, The Lord of the Rings and all plots, places, and peoples affiliated with it are the creation of Mr. J.R.R. Tolkien. Sorry to burst your bubbles, folks.

***

A wise man of my world once said that "fate is not satisfied with inflicting one calamity" and, at that moment, as I once again discovered myself playing the punch-line to yet another sick cosmic joke, I had to concur. Apparently, flinging a poor, unsuspecting twenty-first century twenty something into the middle of what essentially amounted to a medieval war zone wasn't bad enough. Oh, no, the Powers that Be--whom I had evidently pissed off in a past life--decided that my plight wasn't nearly so dire and, thus, resolved to make matters that much worse. Perhaps I've mentioned this particular tidbit before, but, in the event that I haven't, here it is: Lady Fate is a despicable bitch who seems to delight in tormenting me. Indeed, her sadistic nature had certainly come to the fore in this instance as my current predicament found me sprawled, flat on my back, in the snow at the bottom of a sheer-sided fissure.

The world was oddly silent when I finally regained my bearings. Levering myself onto my elbows, I shook my head in an attempt to clear it of any last dregs of confusion regarding my present location and how I'd ended up there before slowly sitting up. My mind reeled and, for the time being, I could do little more than stare at the sheer, gray walls that towered over me and marvel at the small favor that I hadn't cracked my skull open on the way down. The aforementioned walls were separated by perhaps five and a half feet, a scant distance when one considers my less than cautious descent. Seriously, it was a wonder that I didn't lay bleeding and senseless at the bottom of that thrice-cursed ditch. As it was, I was more than a little addled and knew that I had most likely added a myriad of new bumps and bruises to my ever-increasing collection. In fact, my entire body felt as though I'd taken a whirl in a blender.

I probably looked like it, too, if the new scratches on my hands were any indication. Examining these latest acquisitions, I vaguely recalled grasping wildly at the thin shelf of rock where the crevice plunged into darkness while a wide-eyed Legolas sprang forward in a futile attempt to catch me. The wounds stung a bit, but the pain, I think, was due mostly to the cold that nipped at my flesh as it began to snow again. Small, shimmering flakes descended into the narrow space that held me captive, and I shivered when a bitter breeze slithered through the rift. Granted, the fact that I still sat amid the mess of snow and loose stone that had plummeted into the chasm alongside me likely didn't help matters, either. Hastily, I climbed to my feet and pulled my cloak more tightly around my shuddering frame in hopes of warding off the chill. 

"Legolas?" I ventured cautiously. No answer: The only sounds were that of the wind whistling among the rocks and my own harsh breathing. "Legolas!" Still, I received no response; not even after I called out to the son of Thranduil twice more.

Incredulity and then dread filled me. _He did NOT just leave me here,_ I insisted in disbelief. Despite his previous treatment, I could hardly believe that the Elf could be that callous. 

Forcing down my rising panic, I glowered viciously at the sliver of gray sky above me and hissed, "Why that little--I'll kill him." Granted, I had no idea as to how I might actually go about murdering an Elven warrior with at least two millennia's worth of battle expertise under his belt, but let me assure you, I would find a way.

Or die trying, which seemed a distinct possibility in light of Legolas' temperament. 

Besides, dwelling on the many unpleasant ways in which I could make the Elven Prince's life a living nightmare was a much better alternative to breaking into hysterics. 

_So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves,_ I thought sarcastically and then snorted with amusement. Shaking my head at the absurd workings of my obviously rattled brain, I placed my hands on my hips and focused my full attention on my present dilemma. Seeing as the Elvenking's son appeared to have gone AWOL for the time being, it appeared that I would have to find a way out this mess on my own.

"Well, Kel, just how are you going to get out of this one?" I mused aloud as I planted my hands on my hips and fixed the gray stone before me with an assessing eye. A more thorough examination revealed that the fissure barely stretched thirty paces from one end to the other and was more of a pit than anything. Its walls, however, were very nearly vertical, save in one place where they appeared to curve inward towards each other. There would be no means of escape on that quarter.

There did, however, appear to be a number of potential handholds in the area where I'd fallen, and I sighed as I came to the realization that I would most likely have to climb my way out. The picture that thought inspired made me swallow roughly, considering that I wasn't much of a climber and was very much aware of my shortcomings. There was nothing for it, though, and, drawing a strengthening breath, I reached up to grab hold of one of the stronger-looking protrusions.

A few false starts and a broken fingernail or two later saw my having progressed only a few feet up the wall. Already that little distance had the muscles in my arms screaming in protest, and I felt blood begin to trickle down my wrist from one of the nastier abrasions on the side of my right hand. Wrapping my stiff fingers around another spur of rock, I went to pull myself further up the wall.

"YAH!" I yelped when the stone suddenly gave way and I dropped back to the ground in an awkward crouch. Stumbling backwards to compensate for my compromised balance, I tossed the broken stone to the ground and snarled in disgust. "Fine! If that's the way you want to play..." I trailed off and, cursing all the while, attacked the wall with renewed vigor. Later, when I'd had the opportunity to consider it, I imagined that if anyone had actually heard me carry on in such a manner, he or she would have quite possibly thought me completely insane. At that moment, however, that notion mattered little to me: I had long since given up any semblance of decorum.

"My but you have a filthy mouth," a jeering voice called down to me and I jerked my head up so quickly that I nearly gave myself whiplash.

Above me, at the mouth of the trench, hovered Aragorn and Legolas as they peered down to take stock of my predicament. The former frowned in concern while the latter smirked down at me as if Christmas (or whatever bizarre holiday the Elves might celebrate) had come early. I, meanwhile, just stared back at the pair of them like a complete moron. In fact, it took me several moments to comprehend the fact that they were actually standing above me and not merely figments of my imagination spawned from another nasty bump on the head.

My relief at their timely appearance was short-lived, though. Mouth agape, I blinked once, twice...and then exploded.

"Where the hell have you been, you...you...Elf?!" I yelled, though I fairly cringed at my rather uninventive choice of words. 

_Stellar insult that one, Kel._

The Elven Prince "tutted" and cast the end of a coarse rope down into the chasm. "Fetching a line so that we may assist you out of this 'god-forsaken hole,'" he replied drolly whilst I glowered up at him and bit back a multitude of unkind retorts. "Now, take hold and we will pull you up."

Although I didn't quite trust him to refrain from releasing the rope out of sheer pettiness when I was halfway up the wall, I did as he instructed. Fearing that my remaining arm strength wouldn't last should I simply try to hang on, I bound the end of the line around my waist and tied it as tightly as I could before grabbing hold with both hands.

The Man and Elf watched the proceedings without comment and, once done, I tugged gently on the woven cord while calling out, "Alright! Go for it!" Meeting the Elven Prince's sapphire gaze with a hard one of my own, I added sharply, "And don't you dare drop me." 

"It pains me that know that you think so ill of us, _amada hîn,_ " he answered and gave the rope a mighty pull.

"I'm sure it does," I muttered, despite full knowledge that he could hear me. An exceptionally jarring yank was all I received in reply and, alarmed, I tightened my already white-knuckled grip on the rope. It was rough going at first: I kept banging against the nearest wall (and my right shoulder was sore for the next two days as a result) before I finally managed to catch purchase on the stone with the toes of my sneakers.

"Hold up a minute!" I called when Legolas jerked sharply on the rope in response to the sudden resistance I'd created. "You're going to break my arm at the rate you're going!" There was a brief pause in which the Elf allowed me the chance to adjust my grip and gain my footing so that I could propel myself upward as he pulled. This new system, though, made for slow progress and the minutes seemed to crawl as, inch by torturous inch, the son of Thranduil drew me from the depths of the ravine. By the time I reached the top of the wall, there were several adjectives that would have described me: Battered, bruised, and belligerent were chief among them.

Seething, I geared up for the tongue-lashing I planned to unleash upon Legolas for abandoning me in such a place, if only for a short time. But, so involved in my invective was I that I didn't notice the way the rope had frayed from having dragged repeatedly across the rough stone during the course of my earlier acrobatics. Therefore, I hardly had time to secure a hold on the lip of the fissure before the fragile line snapped. A startled scream lodged in my throat as I immediately found my right arm seized in a powerful clasp while Legolas hauled me the rest of the way out.

"I see that fall did little to impede your ability to blaspheme," the Prince commented blithely. I, in turn, swore vividly and clutched his wrist in a death-grip. I heard the remains of the cord hit the bottom of the chasm with a muffled "thuwp" just as Aragorn set upon us.

"Are you injured, mistress?" he asked urgently, taking me by the shoulders and peering critically at my face.

My hands still trembling as a result of nearly tumbling ass-backwards into the abyss for a second time, I shook him off and said shortly, "I'll live. Let's just get off this blasted mountain before it manages to kill me." 

Visibly doubtful of my assurances, Aragorn began to argue, but Legolas was quick to interject. "The girl is fine, _mellon nîn,_ " remarked the Elf, "and I must agree with her. Caradhas will not suffer our presence much longer. We must join the others swiftly lest the weather turn against us once more."

Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, but, upon catching the looks both Legolas and I cast him, he pressed his lips together and opted for a sharp nod. "Let us go as quickly as we may then," he acquiesced. "The sky does not look promising; we shall see more snow soon." That said, he offered me one last assessing glance over his shoulder as he turned to move away. "Should the going grow too rough, allow one of us to assist you." 

"You are weary, Aragorn," said Legolas. "I shall aid the girl if she has need of it."

"Thank you, my friend," replied the Ranger and then, his expression full of appraisal, he said to me, "Stay close to Legolas and allow him to help you should you begin to falter." 

Exhausted, cold, and sore in places that really had no business being sore, I wanted to say several things to the son of Arathorn in reply to his demand, none of which were especially amiable. However, they say that discretion is the better part of valor and, so instead of shooting off my mouth, I nodded sharply and grumbled a bitter, "Fine."

Aragorn frowned, yet turned away without a word more and began the trek back down the mountain's face, clearing away any remaining snow that might bar the path as he went. I watched him go, only to have my attention drawn away at the sound of a throat clearing. I looked away from Aragorn's back to find the Elf watching me impatiently with one hand extended.

"Come," he beckoned imperiously. "We will travel faster if you allow me to assist you."

I arched a brow. "Thanks, but I can manage fine on my own," I replied and began to step around him.

"Oh, for Eru's sake, woman, must you be so stubborn?" he snapped and, before I could so much as blink, I found myself hoisted into the Elven Prince's arms.

"What the Hell?!" I yelled as I grabbed his shoulder to steady myself. "Put me down!"

"Do be quiet," he replied calmly, "and do not even think of pulling my hair." Caught out, I released the strands of golden silk I'd seized in retribution.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" I snapped, glowering at him.

"I assure you, dear lady, that I am in complete possession of all my faculties," came the patronizing response. "Now, if you please, stop squirming. I would certainly regret dropping you to your death."

"Sure you would," I hissed while attempting to wriggle out of his grasp. The arm beneath my shoulders tightened and I swallowed a pained yelp as his grip began to border on ruthless. Meeting his gaze after yet another unsuccessful go at freeing myself, I clenched my jaw and said with as much fortitude as I could muster, "Put me down, Legolas. Now." 

Pale blue eyes dropped to mine. "No," he countered breezily and so cavalier was the denial that I found that I could neither say nor do anything for several moments.

"You enjoy pissing me off, don't you?" I asked upon recovering myself enough to utilize my capacity for speech. Arching a brow, the Elf glanced down at me. I was itching for a fight. He knew it, I knew it, and, as a result, he said nothing in return.

Thus, I spent the remainder of the trip down the mountain's face in the arms of Thranduil's son. By the time we reached the others and he placed me on my feet once more, I was beyond irritated, but I held my tongue and stalked past the others to flop down on the ground beneath the shelter of a tall fir tree. "Embarrassed" didn't even begin to cover how I felt when the others looked from me to the Elf and back again before sharing what seemed to be an invisible collective shrug. By this point in our acquaintance, the Fellowship knew me well enough to realize when and when not to pester me.

For his part, Legolas appeared to be utterly unruffled by the proceedings--as if he had not just hoisted me into his arms like a recalcitrant child and carried me bodily down the mountainside. Instead, he joined the huddle formed by Aragorn, Boromir, and Gandalf as the trio engaged in deep discussion. The Hobbits also clustered together some feet away and I watched them for a minute as they whispered among themselves. 

Finding myself once again pushed to the fringe, I sighed irritably and turned my attention to our surroundings. It was late in the morning--very near noon, judging by the position of the sun-- and it appeared that we had left most of the ill weather behind us in the high pass. The air, though, was still bitterly cold and a chill breeze stirred up the shallow snow that littered the ground around the mountain's feet.

Eyes fixed westward, I took a second to tuck a piece of loose hair behind my right ear before gazing out over the lowlands. Away in the distance, I could see the dell from which we had begun our march to the pass. That place seemed so very far away now and I shuddered when I recalled just how close we'd come to falling prey to the Redhorn's wrath.

"What's that?" a voice--Merry's--said from my left, and I turned to see that the he and Pippin had broken conference with their compatriots to come stand by my side. Recovering myself, I returned my attention to the foothills. There I soon spied dark specks circling in the misty air.

_Oh, for Heaven's sake--_

The thought went unfinished as Aragorn cried, "The Crebain!"

"Well, there is nothing for it now," Gandalf informed us calmly. "Whether they are good or evil or have nothing to do with us at all, we cannot risk another night within the reaches of Caradhas. We must stay our course."

He had a point. We couldn't keep up the "duck-and-cover" strategy every time something unexpected leapt out of the woodwork, so to speak. Thus, as the cold wind whipped up behind us, we put our backs to the mountain pass and began the long, cold journey down the slope.

The rest of the day passed in a muddled, exhausted sort of hush and it was well into the evening when we halted for the night. When Gandalf finally called for us to stop, the evening light had nearly failed and the sky began to grow dark. Only a smattering of stars gleamed overhead. 

Still wrapped up tightly against the chill, I rubbed my hands together briskly and took stock of my companions as we settled at the base of a weathered knoll. Shoulders slumped in fatigue, the Hobbits sat in a cluster on the ground as Boromir and Gimli prepared to set up camp. Meanwhile, Aragorn and Legolas gave the area a thorough once over to search out potential threats while Gandalf peered into the waning gray light of dusk.

The Wizard appeared to be deep in thought over some grave matter or another; there was never telling with him. I, as was my custom whenever we paused for rest, sank to sit beneath one of the many trees that surrounded us and pulled my cloak even closer. The evening air was icy on my exposed skin, but I bore it with all the stoicism I could muster. I had a feeling that this night would get worse before it got better--if, indeed, it got better at all. 

Upon returning from his scouting, Aragorn proceeded to hand out rations of dried meat, fruit, and hard bread; Afterwards, once we had eaten, Gandalf spared each of us one more mouthful of the miruvor. The cordial was almost painfully warm as it slid down my throat and its heat spread. I sighed in relief when feeling began to return to my frozen extremities. 

Once the last of the party (Boromir) had taken a sip of the liquor and returned the leather flask to the Wizard's keeping, Gandalf called a council. "We will rest here awhile," he said. "The journey to and from the Redhorn Gate had exhausted us."

"And then where are we to go?" asked Frodo, gazing at the old Maia beseechingly. I spied the vulnerable expression on his face even from where I sat some ten feet away: The Hobbit was troubled. 

"Our errand is yet before us," replied Gandalf. "Now, though, we have come to a choice of roads: to go on, or to return to Rivendell." Merry, Pippin, and Sam looked up hopefully at the suggestion of turning back. The others, however, made no sign of what they might have thought of the matter.

At last, after several moments of silence, Frodo spoke, "I wish I was back there." He twisted his hands in his lap. "But how can I return without shame?" He looked to Gandalf and then to Aragorn, whose face was solemn. "That is, unless there is no other way and all is already lost?"

Gandalf frowned. "You are right, Frodo," he said, "to go back is to admit defeat. If we return now, all is, indeed, lost. It would be only a matter of time before Rivendell is besieged and inevitably destroyed. The Ringwraiths are deadly enemies, but, as of now, they are mere shadows of the power and terror they would possess should the Ruling Ring return to their Master's hand." 

"Then we must continue on," declared the Hobbit grimly and his cohorts visibly deflated as their hopes of returning to the Elven haven were dashed.

From there the discussion turned to alternate routes now that the pass through the mountains had been tried. From what I discerned of the debate, we had but two choices: On one hand, we could take the way Gandalf had suggested from the onset and venture through Moria, or journey further south and attempt the Gap of Rohan.

The latter suggestion came courtesy of Boromir and was shot down immediately by Gandalf, who asked snippily, "Have you forgotten already what I told you of Saruman, Boromir? Things have changed since you came north, son of Denethor. With Saruman's betrayal, the Gap of Rohan is closed to us."

"As for the longer road, we can ill afford the time. The danger increases with every league we hazard under a naked sky. Therefore, I advise that we go neither over the mountains nor around them, but under them instead. It is the road that the Enemy will least expect us to take."

"We do not know what he expects," replied Boromir, unwilling to abandon his argument. "He may watch all roads, likely and unlikely. If that is the case, to enter Moria would be as walking into a trap--hardly better than knocking at the gates of the Dark Tower itself. The name of Moria is black, I say."

"You speak of things you do not know," was Gandalf's sharp answer. "I alone of all of you have been in the dungeons of the Dark Lord's stronghold, and only then in those of the lesser Dol Guldor. I would not lead you into Moria if there were no hope of ever coming out again."

The debate continued on for several minutes during which each member of the Fellowship offered his piece on the idea of journeying through the Mines. I listened with only half an ear; I knew which path we would take, though I was loath to think of it. Not that anyone bothered to ask my opinion on the matter, anyway. In the end, no decision was actually reached, for the final choice was given to the Ringbearer, who begged that there be no vote until the party had slept on it and the cold gloom of night had passed.

Silence fell. Huddling down deeper into my cloak, I leaned more fully against the trunk of the old pine at my back and listened to the wind hiss among the rocks and trees. It rose to a howl and echoed in the empty spaces of the surrounding darkness. Another sort of wail, however, soon joined the cacophony and, suddenly, Aragorn sprang to his feet, startling me from the light doze into which I'd fallen.

"Wolves!" he cried. "Wargs have come west of the Mountains!" At these words, I leapt to my own feet and spun to face the shadows beyond. Fear surged in my blood as the eerie howling rose to new heights.

"We cannot wait for morning; the hunt is up!" Gandalf stated grimly.

"How far is Moria?" asked Boromir, his hand straying to the blade at his hip.

"There was a door south-west of Caradhas, some fifteen miles as the crow flies, or perhaps twenty as the wolf runs," replied the Wizard.

"We must leave for the Mines as soon as dawn arrives, if we can," said Boromir, coming to stand beside Aragorn, who also loosened his sword in its sheath.

"Come," the Ranger commanded. "Let us climb the hill. It will be more easily defended should the hunting packs attack."

As quickly as we were able, we gathered our belongings and made our way to the top of the small hillock. There grew a knot of old and twisted trees--holly, mostly, I think, although it was difficult to tell in the dark--bordered by a broken circle of boulders. In the center of the ring, we built a fire around which those who were not on guard dozed fitfully.

Now glaringly awake, I sat with my back towards the blaze, my gaze fixed upon the encroaching darkness. Every now and again, I caught sight of a pair of gleaming, yellow eyes peering over the brow of the hill; some came so close to the ring of stones that I could almost make out the great, hulking shape of a lupine body. Over the crackling of the fire, I could hear the whispered conversation between two of the Hobbits--Merry and Pippin--as they lamented their decision to accompany the Ringbearer on this perilous road. They were terrified: I could hear it in their voices, see it in every flinch or shudder at a wolfish howl, and my heart clenched painfully at the thought of what they would yet face.

"You should try to sleep a bit, Lady Kelly," Aragorn's voice startled me from my contemplation and I turned to find him watching me from his resting place. Not that he actually rested: In fact, I was beginning to wonder if the man ever slept at all. Even now, while the others took what respite they could, the Ranger sat crossed-legged on the ground as he drew the edge of his hunting knife back and forth across a whetstone. He had been doing this for some time, apparently, for he raised the blade to face level and examined it closely before testing the edge against the pad of his thumb.

I returned to my survey of the shadows. "Considering the fact that we stand a very good chance of being eaten before the night is over," I sniped. "I don't think sleep is in the cards, Aragorn."

The Man "hmm-ed" softly in agreement. "Nevertheless, you are safe," he assured me. "We will keep the wolves at bay."

And, of course, it was no sooner that he uttered those fateful words that a loud, shuddering howl ripped through the air as one of the more daring wolves broke the circle. Lips drawn back to reveal yellowed fangs, the beast crouched and made as if to spring across the fire where the Hobbits hunkered together. Another howl issued from his throat, this one commanding, as if he were a captain summoning his soldiers to battle. To my horror, many more gleaming eyes abruptly flared to life all around us. 

"You were saying!" I shouted, scrambling to my feet and throwing myself away from the advancing creatures. Aragorn barely spared me an exasperated glance prior to leaping forward alongside Gandalf and the others to force the beasts back.

The leading wolf released a rumbling growl. Muscles shifted beneath its shaggy, black pelt just before the animal pounced. At that same moment, there was a sharp "twang," followed swiftly by a yelp and a thud. In a gap between two of the surrounding stones lay a massive dog-like shape; an Elvish arrow protruded from its throat. The luminous eyes around us suddenly winked out like candle flames extinguished in a sudden wind and utter silence fell.

The hunting packs had fled.

Once he and Gandalf made sure that none of the wolves lingered in the immediate area, Aragorn approached me and, without saying a word, pressed the finely tooled leather sheath of his hunting knife into my hand. 

Bemused, I blinked and asked, "And what, exactly, am I suppose to do with this?"

"Stay close to the Hobbits," he ordered.

"That didn't exactly answer my question, Aragorn," I pointed out. "What on earth is this for?"

"A last line of defense," he replied and walked away before I could say another word.

Rather bewildered by his answer, I stared down at the knife now in my possession and then simply shook my head before murmuring, "Awesome." 

Eventually, the camp settled back into its former wary sort of peace. Hours passed and the night grew old. Sighing tiredly, I sank back against one of the few boulder-stones near the fire, stretching out my legs and crossing them at the ankle. Aragorn's knife lay across my lap, my right hand curled around its hilt.

The Hobbits slept nearby, next to the fire. Frodo lay closest to the flames while the others spread out around in him in a vague half-circle. Watching them sink deeper into slumber, I contemplated trying for a little shut-eye myself. Unfortunately, just as I decided to give up the fight and had begun to nod off, all Hell broke loose.

Frodo started abruptly from his sleep, bolting upright with a strangled shout and looking around wildly as if he had been doused in cold water. Disturbed from respite for a second time that night, I sat up irritably and groaned, "What is it, Fro--" The question died abruptly on my lips when, without warning, a chorus of fierce howls rent the air.

The wolves had returned.

"Fling fuel on the fire," Gandalf's voice erupted across the campsite and the Hobbits scrambled to obey. I, too, leapt up, instinct taking control as I placed myself between the Halflings and the snapping jaws that would have surely made short work of them. I would later marvel at the utter folly of my actions. At that moment, however, there was no time to think (scarcely time to breathe, for that matter) as the creatures sprang, one after the other, over the ring of stones. 

Light from the fire and the waning moon glimmered eerily on the bloodied surfaces of Aragorn's and Boromir's swords as they tore through the bodies of our lupine attackers. I found myself momentarily mesmerized before something (an arrow, I realized) "whizzed" by my left ear and Legolas snarled, "Watch yourself, you little fool!"

Unfortunately, the warning came too late--or, rather, I was too slow as I spun about, ripping Aragorn's knife from its sheath just in time to be knocked flat on my back when one of the wolves pounced.

"Lady Kelly!" Aragorn's shout of panic echoed over the din of battle, but I paid it little mind while I struggled beneath the slavering beast. In that moment, I knew for sure that the end had come.

"Get off her!" Suddenly, there was a heavy "thunk" followed by a growling yelp and the wolf leapt away. Immediately, I rolled to my stomach and scrambled to find the knife that had been thrown from my grasp. 

"Pippin!" I yelled upon spotting my savior, who froze, a large branch from the pile of firewood still clutched in his hands, when the beast that had set upon me turned its attention to him. 

What happened next really ranked a "ten" on the stupidity meter, but I didn't care as I sprang up and onto the back of the massive creature that threatened one of the few people who (I think) actually liked me. The brute howled, snarled, and bucked like a wild horse in hopes of throwing me off, but I'd claimed a grip on the shaggy ruff of fur around its neck and held on with a vengeance.

"Idiot girl!" I heard someone yell, though I was much too concerned with hanging on for dear life to truly distinguish the voice. "Slay the beast!" 

It was then that I recalled the blade in my grasp, the leather grip tangled between my fingers and the rough fur of the monster to which I clung. A split second of indecision, however, made me hesitate. I had never killed anything before--had never possessed any desire to--and yet I knew I had to do something because the wolf had begun to grow more agitated and my sweaty hands were beginning to slip. So, gathering all my courage and trying to ignore the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, I tightened my hold on the hunting knife in my hand and drove it deep into the shoulder of the animal. 

The resulting wound brought forth a howl of pain that rattled my teeth, and I lost my grip on both knife and wolf. Hitting the ground, I scrabbled away just in time to avoid a reactionary snap of savage jaws and then rolled to my feet. Bleeding and furious, the creature lunged violently and very nearly managed to latch onto my arm as I staggered backwards and tripped. I then proceeded to say some rather nasty things indeed and looked around wildly for my weapon, even as the beast prepared a secondary attack. 

Several things happened all at once. I spotted the knife on the ground a few feet to my left and I dove towards it; one of the Hobbits cried out as the wolf made to pounce upon me once again; and Legolas sank an arrow into the animal's ribcage beneath its foreleg. Vital organs pierced, the wolf crumpled.

Suddenly, Gandalf's voice boomed over the clearing and he raised a glowing branch from the fire high into the air while crying, "Naur an edraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth!" Aragorn later translated the phrase as meaning something akin to "Fire...fire take the werewolves," but I found I couldn't care less about the exact connotation. At that point in time, I was simply thankful that it seemed to force the beasts into a hasty retreat. 

Tossed into the air, the burning bough flared bright and the trees above Gandalf burst into flame. The fire spread rapidly from tree-top to tree-top until the entire hill was ablaze. Frightened by both the fire and the scent of the magic that spawned it, many of the wolves fled. Soon, only the wolf-chieftain remained and he was brought down swiftly by the Elven arrow that plunged into his heart.

The battle over and the adrenaline slowly receding, I sank to my knees. It was only then that I noticed the blood coating my right hand and the faint tremble of my fingers. I drew several deep breaths to calm my racing heart and to still the tremors. Needless to say, my nerves were shot, so, of course, the touch of a small hand on my shoulder very nearly made me jump out of my skin. 

"Miss Kelly, are you alright?" asked Pippin quietly. He seemed worried and I realized that I probably looked very close to a total nervous breakdown. The other Hobbits hovered anxiously behind him and three sets of wide eyes watched me closely. I wondered what they must have thought of my stunt: No doubt it had only enforced their opinion that I was entirely off my rocker. I snorted in spite of myself.

"I'm fine," I assured him with a brief pat on the hand before I climbed to my feet. Offering him a small smile and receiving one in return, I wiped my hands and Aragorn's knife clean on the piece of cloth he handed me and relished the stillness left in the wake of combat. The peace, sadly, was short-lived. 

"Of all the daft--have you taken complete leave of your senses, girl?" Gimli thundered as he and the others returned from scouting out any wolves that might have been brave enough to linger in the area. The Dwarf stormed over to me and I stared down at him, totally nonplussed, while he berated me. "You could have been killed, you foolish chit!"

Galvanized by the insult, I snapped back, "What was I supposed to do? Let it eat Pippin?"

"You are fortunate that the Elf is skilled with a bow, lass, or else our company would have been short two!" Gloin's son continued heatedly. He was right, of course. Still, that didn't make his statement any easier to swallow.

Fuming, I opened my mouth to retort, but Pippin beat me to the punch. "She saved my life, Lord Gimli!" he cried ardently, his little face scrunching.

"And nearly got herself killed in the process, lad," answered the Dwarf. 

I glared at the son of Gloin. "You know what, Gimli? Scre--!"

"That is enough! All of you!" Gandalf bellowed over the remainder of my reply. He fixed both Gimli and me with a gimlet stare. "What is done is done. We have not the time to argue over the matter. Dawn approaches and we must make all haste towards Moria's gates."

Still seething, I turned and looked to the eastern horizon. Sure enough, the sky had lightened to the pale lavender of daybreak and the growing light soon made visible the damage wrought by Gandalf's spell-fire. Ash and sparks from the smoldering tree stumps danced on the breeze while bitter smoke choked the air: The entire hillside had been destroyed.

Nothing more was said on the subject of my "daring" rescue, though the general consensus seemed to be that it had been not only dangerous, but, also, idiocy of the highest order. The thought rankled merely because I knew how true it was. No one needed to point out that I had been the one in need of rescue in the first place.

_Too true,_ I mused inwardly. _This damsel-in-distress thing is getting old._ Sighing, I returned to my meager breakfast. Despite having had very little to eat over the last few days, I couldn't say that I was particularly hungry. The hollow feeling in my stomach made sure of that: It was a sensation produced by what we had found when the light of morning came fully upon us.

No trace of our battle with the wolves remained--no prints in the dirt, no bodies, and no blood stains. Nothing, save Legolas' arrows, which littered the ground all around us. All were intact, except one; only the point survived and I had a sneaking suspicion that it had been the one to take down the pack leader.

"It is as I feared," said Gandalf grimly while he surveyed the scene. "These were no ordinary wolves." I shuddered, even as the Wizard suggested we eat our morning repast and leave as quickly as possible.

When our fast and camp was broken, we stood, ready to depart, and looked to the south-east. Gandalf raised a hand to point at the dim line of bare cliffs in the distance, above which towered one great stonewall. "There they lay, the doors of Moria," he explained. "We must reach them before sunset, or I fear we will not reach them at all. Let us go!" And, with those words, he settled his bedraggled blue hat upon his head, took up his staff, and set off down the hillside.

The rest of us exchanged glances. We were leery of this new road, unsure of where it might lead us, and yet certain of one thing: There was no going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, this chapter is so, so late. I really have no excuse, save that RL has been asserting itself in the worst ways. 
> 
> FYI: The quote that Kelly mentions at the beginning of this chapter was said by Publius Syrus, a 1st c. BCE Roman author. Also, the wolf attack that takes place actually occurs in the book; it was one of those scenes that was cut out of the first film. I just adapted it a bit for my nefarious purposes.


	10. These Dark Paths We Tread

A Road Less Traveled

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the plots, places, or characters associated with it. All are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien and no copyright infringement is intended.

***

Gimli was nearly an hour and a half into his discourse concerning the grandeur of Dwarvish culture when I began to seriously contemplate committing murder. Granted, the lecture mightn't have been so bad--interesting, even--if I hadn't been so thoroughly exhausted and my mood so utterly foul. Instead, on several separate occasions, I found my fingers twitching with the desire to wrap around the hilt of the hunting knife that now hung from my belt. Or to rip out my own hair, seeing as, at that point, I wasn’t particularly picky so long as it might silence the Dwarf for longer than the sparse instant it took him to pause for a breath every now and again. That said, I have to admit that it was incredibly fortuitous that Aragorn insisted on keeping me company (or, rather, on an exceedingly short leash) and that Gimli walked alongside Gandalf at the head of our procession. 

Otherwise, goodness only knows what sort of mayhem might have ensued.

Together, the Dwarf and Wizard led the way back to the base of the mountains. There, Gandalf informed us, lay the only route to the western entrance to Khazad-dûm. The road itself, he explained, followed the progression of a stream called the Sirannon, or the Gate-stream as it was named in the Common Tongue, which originated near the cliffs where the Doors of Moria stood. 

Despite the Wizard’s insistence that he knew the way, however, it soon became painfully apparent as we journeyed onward that something was very much amiss. That is to say, either the local geography had changed drastically of late, or else Gandalf was totally lost because we had yet to locate any indication of a watercourse--not even so much as a damp pebble.

And that particular fact was one that I, naturally, was quick to point out. "He has no idea where he's going, does he?" I asked Aragorn, who, even with his longer stride, kept pace beside me.

"Patience, Lady Kelly,” he bade me. “A Wizard's memory is deep. He will recall the way before long." 

Aragorn’s assertion did little to allay my rising disquiet, and I jerked to halt in the middle of the trail to gawp at the Ranger like the man had taken complete leave of the senses and announced that he planned to abandon his destiny as Gondor’s future king to join Sauron in his quest for world domination. "Do you mean to tell me that we're following him blindly on the off chance that he’s going to stumble over this Gate-stream-thing eventually?" I scoffed sardonically upon voicing the notion aloud. "Is it just me or does that sound like a really bad idea?"

Unsurprisingly, Aragorn offered no response to my cynicism: Instead, he just gave me that look--the one that made me feel like _I_ was the one who was lost—over his shoulder and continued on down the path.

 _Well, that's just fan-freaking-tastic. I'm going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. I just know it..._ Irrespective of that less than cheerful thought (or, perhaps, because of it), I forced my jaw to unclench and hurried to catch up with the son of Arathorn.

Hours passed and, still, we came across no sign of water, let alone something that Gandalf had previously described as a loud, fast-moving current. But, then, just when I began to despair of our ever finding the blasted thing, Gimli--bless his hairy, little heart--cried out with both surprise and relief.

"Look!" he called back to us from where he stood atop a rise some distance ahead. He waved one hand wildly in the air before pointing at something ahead and off to his right. 

"Finally," Pippin, who had paused just in front of me, groaned. Too tired to comment after our trek, I could only nod in agreement.

"But what's happened to the water?" asked Merry, voicing the question on everyone’s mind when, upon joining Gimli, we all found ourselves staring down into a deep, narrow channel where only the faintest trickle of water snaked its way over the rust-colored stones. Regardless of its currently pitiful state, it was obvious that this was where the Sirannon had once run.

"I know not, Master Meriadoc," answered Gandalf, "though this is, indeed, where the Gate-stream once coursed." He studied the topography for a long moment prior to saying, "There is a path on the near side or, rather, there should be. It will lead us to the Gates, but we must hurry. Time is no longer with us."

So, on we went, picking our way down into the ravine and then along a path that proved rough and winding, for all that it appeared to follow the ancient road between Eregion and the old Dwarf realm. For many miles the track ran, and we pursued it until we were all of us footsore and drained beyond words. Afternoon had begun to fade into evening and the air was cold when we, at last, came to a sharp curve. There the south-veering road shifted suddenly to the east, and, upon rounding the bend, we were faced with a low precipice: What remained of the swift-flowing Sirannon dribbled sluggishly over its edge, falling to moisten the dry, red earth of the streambed.

"This is most strange," murmured Gandalf as he looked up at the paltry stream. Then, louder, he said, "Even so, there is no mistaking this place. This is all that remains of the Stair Falls."

"Well, then, if that's not a sorry sight and no mistake," observed Sam as he, too, peered at the remnant of the cascade. 

"Indeed it is, Samwise," agreed the Wizard. He took a few steps forward as though to afford himself a closer look and "hmm-ed" deeply. "In any case, it appears that neither my long memory nor my sense of direction has yet failed me." Here he cast a sly glance in my direction, and I had the grace to flush in embarrassment when it became clear that my earlier inquiries to Aragorn had, in fact, been overheard.

Grimacing, I muttered a sheepish, "Oops," as I ran a hand over my hair and ducked my head in an attempt to soothe my heated cheeks. I heard Boromir chuckle while Aragorn gave me a commiserating pat on the shoulder, though a quick peek from the corner of my eye exposed the Ranger’s valiant attempt to keep a straight face. Still blushing, I offered him a faint smile and a helpless shrug.

Gandalf, for his part, saw none of this interaction. Instead, he stood, gazing thoughtfully at the cliff's face. "If I remember rightly, there is a flight of steps cut into the rock at this side," he told us. "It made a shorter road for those journeying in haste. The main track winds round left and climbs several loops up to level ground at the top. I should like to find the stairs and see what has become of the valley above." 

Of course, after that there was nothing for it, but to search for the stairs, even though the majority of us were exhausted and the light waned. Luckily, we located the stone steps swiftly and without much difficulty, and Gandalf, accompanied only by Frodo and Gimli, ventured up them while the remainder of our party awaited them below with our supplies and the baggage pony.

I can't speak for the others, but I, for one, was thankful for the breather, brief though I knew it would be: I doubt that I’ve ever been so weary as I was at that moment. My back and shoulders ached from having carried my backpack for so long and so far, and I was fairly certain that the blisters on my feet had blisters of their own. Not to mention, I felt as if I were one giant bruise, what with having practically tumbled down a mountainside a time or ten.

Slipping off my pack and stretching my tired limbs, I released a grateful sigh before sinking to the ground for a rest. During our march, we had halted only briefly, and, thereupon, taken a hasty meal, but that had been hours before and my rumbling stomach demanded that I put something in it before it revolted entirely. Digging around in my bag until I unearthed the bright green package of trail mix from beneath my first aid kit and spare yoga pants, I set about “appeasing the beast,” in a manner of speaking.

I'd eaten only a handful of my snack, though, when I suddenly became aware of someone’s keen gaze, and a surreptitious glance to my left revealed Merry and Pippin watching me with avid curiosity and not a little hunger. This frank study went on for several moments during which I pretended not to notice their scrutiny and waited for one of them to indulge his interest.

Per usual, Pippin broke first. "What's that?" he asked, head tilted quizzically.

"Trail mix," I replied, popping an almond into my mouth.

"Is it good?" he pressed.

I shrugged. "I like it." I looked down at the still mostly full packet in my hand and, before thinking better of it, asked, "Would you like some?"

Of course, the Hobbit nodded and accepted the bag eagerly. "Why," he began after poking through it, "this 'trail mix' is very much like the dried fruit and tree meats we were given in Rivendell." He withdrew a handful and examined it more closely. "Except for this. What is it?" Between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched a chunk of chocolate.

"It's called chocolate," I explained and, when he looked askance, I pursed my lips prior to attempting to describe the substance. "It's a sweet made mostly from milk, sugar, and cocoa. There are a couple of different kinds, I think. That's 'dark' chocolate and it uses much less milk and sugar than the other types." Tipping my chin towards the piece he held, I said, " Now, you better eat that before it melts and makes a mess."

After inspecting the treat for only a brief second longer, he followed my suggestion, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed before breaking into a broad grin. "It is sweet!” was his emphatic exclamation. "A bit bitter perhaps, but rich." He then proceeded to pick through the mix in search of the confection.

 _Good grief,_ I mused wryly as I watched him. _I've created a monster._

"Don't be such a glutton, Pip!" Merry broke in as he attempted to snatch the bag from his cousin's clutches. "I am quite sure Miss Kelly would like to keep some of that for later." Granted, this knowledge didn't deter him from seizing up a great handful of the concoction as well.

My spirits very much improved, I merely laughed at their squabbling and received the pouch back from a thoroughly chastened Pippin. None of our other companions, I noticed, made any move to try the foodstuff and I wondered if their reticence was due to the fare itself or the one who offered it.

 _Oh, for the love of Pete, Kel,_ I was quick to censure myself. _You're getting paranoid._ Regardless, the thought was enough to wipe the smile from my face and eradicate any good feeling that I had managed to summon courtesy of Merry and Pippin's antics. 

At any rate, I was very much relieved to see Gandalf, Frodo, and Gimli descend the stairs some twenty minutes later. By that point in the evening, the sun hung low on the horizon, leaving the winter sky ablaze in varying hues of brilliant orange and lavender. A light wind stirred as the Wizard, Hobbit, and Dwarf came to a halt before us.

"We have discovered what has become of the Sirannon and its falls," stated Gandalf as Frodo joined the other Hobbits and Gimli made his way over to Boromir and Legolas. "The stream has become blocked and all the valley above is filled."

And so it was, I observed when I reached the top of the slope after an arduous climb that left my calves burning and my lungs heaving. Standing between Aragorn and Boromir with my hands braced on my knees, I struggled to regain my breath--only to bite back a multitude of unpleasant remarks when I straightened and found myself looking out over the dark, still surface of the lake that now consumed the vale. Neither the sinking sun nor the twilit sky above reflected upon its ominous face: The sight was odd and unnerving, and I wanted nothing to do with it or what lie beyond it. Unfortunately, I knew I had no choice because Gandalf seemed Hell-bent on our making our way through Moria.

"We must head for the cliffs. There we should find the entrance to the Mines,” said the Istar after surveying our newest obstacle with a thoughtful frown. And quite the obstacle it was, for, though the lake itself was not terribly wide (being only perhaps two or three furlongs at its widest point), to the south, it stretched far beyond my meager sight in the failing light and appeared to be rather deep. There would be no crossing it without a vessel of some sort: We would have to go around.

"And if the entrance cannot be found?" Boromir asked. "What then?"

"I dare not consider the alternative, son of Denethor," countered Gandalf grimly before he gestured to the northward valley wall and said, "Come. We shall see if we can skirt the water's edge." With that, he set off down the path towards the lakeshore while the rest of us exchanged uneasy glances.

"I have a really bad feeling about this," I muttered, peering nervously at the mist that hovered over the dark mere. "A really bad feeling."

"Indeed," agreed Aragorn, just as softly. 

Nevertheless, he proceeded after the Wizard and the others swiftly followed suit, abandoning me to watch the strangely tranquil water for a few minutes more while the feeling of foreboding in my stomach threatened to rise up and choke me. "Breathe, Kel," I whispered to myself and swallowed harshly when said breath caught in my throat. “Just brea—“

"Miss Kelly!" Pippin's clear voice suddenly rang out in the distance. Head snapping up, I discovered that he and Merry had paused to wait for me some ways down the path: The rest of the group had since vanished into the growing gloom of twilight. "Gandalf says to 'hurry, or we shall leave you behind!'"

"As if I were that lucky," I groused, but at least I’d managed to overcome my apprehension for the time being. Adjusting my pack on my shoulders, I cast another brief glance at the lake and rushed to catch up.

"Watch your step," directed Gandalf when we finally reached the lake’s northward end and discovered that a shallow creek barred our way. The rill was narrow, green, and twisted its way into the surrounding hills like a snake. Beyond it lay the scant sliver of land that would serve as our path to the Doors.

"Well, now that's just gross," I said, scrunching my nose. The Hobbits, I noted, wore similar expressions of distaste, but none of them hesitated to follow the others into the stagnant water. I sighed and plunged after them, only to pull another disgusted face when the dirty liquid soaked my sneakers and the legs of my jeans. "Oh, eww..."

"Ah, quit your bellyaching, girl," Gimli called back from the head of the line. Completely undeterred by the obstruction, he strode first into the stream and learned that it rose only to his knees at its deepest point. "It's just a bit of water."

"'Just a bit of water,' he says," I growled under my breath as I picked my way across the slimy beck. "If I catch some kind of bizarre Middle-Earth disease because of this, I'm blaming you, you stupid Dwarf. And, you know what? I'll 'bellyache' if I damned well plea--" Just then, my foot caught the edge of one of the many algae-laden rocks at the bottom of the stream. Arms flailing, I shrieked a curse and fought to regain my balance, all the while fully aware that I was bound for a mouthful of mud and Lord knows what else. Then, just as I lost my battle for equilibrium and resigned myself to ending up face-first in the muck, someone seized the back of my shirt and my string of invective cut off with a strangled 'YERK!' as the material gathered tightly around my neck and arrested any further foul language. 

"Careful, mistress," said Boromir before releasing the cloth and stepping deftly around me to make his way to the other side of the brook. Rubbing at my abused throat, I retreated into sullen silence.

Once Sam, the last of our party, led Bill the pony up onto the dry ground on the far side of the stream, we made for the thin strip of land that formed a pathway around the far perimeter of the lake. Here Gandalf began to press our pace for the darkness deepened and great, grey clouds moved in to blot out the last rays of the setting sun. The few stars that managed to peek through glimmered faintly overhead, but they did little in the way of providing light. What's more, with each passing step, the feeling of trepidation that writhed in my stomach swelled until I very nearly jumped out of my skin at the slightest sound or faintest shadow.

And our eerie surroundings didn’t help in the slightest: In fact, they were downright creepy. In the shallows along the lakeshore, the great stumps and dead boughs of trees rotted in the mire while the remains of old thickets and even parts of a hedge that had evidently once lined the road from Hollin broke the water's surface. These reminders of a realm long since faded and forgotten made the journey seem that much more lonesome and unsettling, and I shuddered despite my warm cloak.

Nonetheless, there was yet some life left in this desolate place. Close to the cliffs there stood, still strong and thriving, two massive holly trees: Their roots stretched from the rock wall to the water and the trees themselves rose high overhead. And beyond them, the Walls of Moria towered, silent and imperious.

Gandalf waited until all ten of us were gathered around before he spoke. "Here stand the Walls of Moria," he proclaimed, gesturing to the massive expanse of stone that stretched far into the shadows above us.

I have to say that I was less than impressed with his announcement, especially considering the fact that the so-called Walls looked exactly like the face of any other cliff I’d ever seen.

Hence, I couldn’t resist commenting.

"Really? How can you tell, Gandalf?" I inquired skeptically as I crossed my arms. "Your spidey-senses tingling?" Needless to say, the look I received from the Wizard in response was sharp, albeit a bit mystified, but he said nothing, preferring to concentrate on the expanse of rock before him and ignoring my query completely.

"We have thus far followed what remains of the Elven-way from Hollin and here that way ends. Holly, as you may recall, was the token of the people of that land and they planted it here to mark the boundary of their domain," explained the Istar. "The West-door was made largely for their use when there was still close friendship between the Dwarves of Moria and the Elves of Eregion."

At that remark, Gimli snorted in disbelief and muttered something in his native tongue to which Gandalf rejoined, "Indeed, Master Dwarf, you need not sound so taken aback. In days of old, yes, the Noldor of Eregion and the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm held great respect for one another, for both peoples shared an immense love of metal-craft and the making of beautiful things." Here Gandalf paused to shake his head and then said, somewhat mournfully, "Those were happier times."

"It was not the fault of the Dwarves that such a friendship waned," stated Gimli haughtily.

"Neither was it that of the Elves," replied Legolas with just as much pride, and I sighed as I braced myself for the argument that was sure to follow: Past experience indicated that two of them could go on for hours, if not intercepted quickly.

Thankfully, Gandalf was swift to intercede, "I have heard the blame placed at the feet of both, but that is neither here nor there, and it is not my place to pass judgment now. I would ask, though, that you forgive the grievances of your respective kith and kin for the moment. Night is nigh upon us and I need your help." As if to signal that he had nothing further to say on the subject of the bad blood between the Firstborn and the Children of Aüle, the Wizard laid his hands against the stone while peering closely at it. 

"Dwarf-doors are invisible to all but those who know what to look for," he told us as he brushed his fingers along lines that only he could see. "Sometimes even their own masters cannot find them, if their secrets are lost."

 _Shocker that,_ I mused acerbically: I knew better than to give voice to the quip, however. Tempers had grown progressively shorter over the last hour or so and I had absolutely no desire to expose myself to the wrath of a cranky Istar--previous remarks concerning "spidey-senses" notwithstanding, of course.

Even so, something of my thoughts must have shown on my face because Aragorn shot me a warning glance that plainly said "not a word." I offered him an innocent smile in return, but, judging from the raised brow and stern set of his mouth, the son of Arathorn wasn't fooled in the least. 

"Come," he directed and gestured for me to follow him. "Help me with the baggage."

"What?" I asked, nonplussed. "Why?"

It was Gandalf who answered me, although he didn't so much as glance my way when he said, "Because, as useful as Bill the pony has proven, we cannot take him into the Mines. It is a dark and dangerous road through Moria, and there are places along the path too narrow and steep for such a beast to pass safely."

"But, Mr. Gandalf, we can't leave poor old Bill behind!" cried an appalled Samwise Gamgee, who stood at the pony's side with the animal's reins clutched tightly in one white-knuckled fist. "There's wolves...and goblins and...and all sorts of horrible things out there! He'll be eaten for sure!"

"I am sorry, Samwise," said Gandalf kindly, "but I fear that when the Doors open there will be no dragging your Bill across the threshold and into the dark."

As I listened to him quarrel with Gandalf over the fate of the pony, I felt my heart break a bit for the sandy-haired Hobbit. He was obviously very attached, but, to tell you the truth, I thought the creature was getting the better end of the deal. Heck, I _envied_ the beast his freedom: That is to say, he wasn't about to walk into the "Black Pit" to face all manner of creepy, crawling critters.

"You needn't worry, Sam," Aragorn assured the dejected Shireling as he and I set to removing the pony's burden of supplies. "He knows the way home." Despite their intent, the words did little to comfort Sam. Rather, he hung his head and quickly made his way over to the other Hobbits, who met him with compassionate smiles, gentle pats on the back, and shoulder squeezes.

"Yes, but do not allow him to leave just yet," called out Gandalf. "We may have need of him should there prove no way into the Mines.”

As per Gandalf's instructions, Aragorn made sure to picket the pony to prevent him from wandering away while the rest of us made short work of distributing the provisions. Most of the winter weather gear we put aside as Gandalf assured us that we would not need it once inside the Mines. The rest we divided amongst ourselves, each of us taking a share of rations, a bedroll, a blanket, and a water skin. My pack was considerably heavier once I accepted my portion of the provisions, and Boromir chuckled in amusement when I grunted upon lifting the overstuffed bag.

"Oh, hush," I grumbled at him, but there was little bite to it: I hadn't the energy. Instead, I turned my attention to the silent and motionless Gandalf, who still stared at the wall of stone before him as if its vacant facade contained the secrets of the universe.

For want of anything else to do, I watched the Wizard for a time, but I soon found my gaze wandering elsewhere--namely to Aragorn, who prowled restlessly along the lake's edge. Noting the tense set of his shoulders, I rose from my seat upon an upturned boulder and made my way to his side when he paused to gaze out over the lake

"What's up?" I asked only to receive a blank look in response. Sighing inaudibly because it was neither the first nor would it be the last time my manner of speech flummoxed one of my companions, I elaborated, "Is something wrong?"

His eyes returned to the unmoving water. "This lake," he answered, "it has an ill look about it."

"I know," I replied, wrapping my arms around myself as if the action would chase away the foreboding that haunted me. "It's creepy as heck. Water shouldn't be that still." Aragorn merely "hmm-ed" in agreement, so I continued, "Doesn't help that I keep feeling like I'm being watched."

That last statement earned me a keen side-eye, but, before the Ranger could reply, an exclamation of triumph burst out from behind us. Turning, both the son of Arathorn and I discovered that Gandalf had, at last, made some progress in finding the entrance to the Mines. The Wizard stood in the shadow between the great holly trees, running his hands back and forth across the smooth face of the cliff while muttering under his breath. Perhaps thinking that we would continue on soon in light of Gandalf’s find, Aragorn cast me another glance, one that clearly asked if I planned to come along and, when I nodded, he moved to rejoin the others.

As I made to follow after him, however, I tossed one last wary look over my shoulder at the ominous pool and then froze, my eyes widening in alarm when I saw something break the glass-like surface. Half a second it was there, then gone, and left not so much as a ripple in its wake. Hardly daring to breath, I stood, stock-still, and watched the water for any further signs of movement. There were none, though, and, after several long moments, I shook my head and berated myself for imagining things.

 _See, paranoid,_ I thought with an internal sneer. _It was probably just a fish or something._ I knew better, of course, but I held out hope that, perhaps, the Fates might spare us, just this once.

"Miss Kelly?" inquired Merry when I resumed my perch on the boulder, unease coiling in my stomach. Something of my discomfiture must have shown on my face because the Hobbit then asked, "Are you alright?" 

"I'm fine, Merry," I replied with a smile that I’m sure looked just as forced as it felt. "Just tired. It's been a long day."

"And 'tis bound to get longer, lass," Gimli broke in, "but look now. Gandalf has found the Doors."

Sure enough, just as I turned in the direction in which the Dwarf gestured, the full light of the moon struck the blank expanse of gray wall. At first, I saw nothing save smooth, dark stone and I tossed Gandalf a dubious glance. Then, suddenly, sinuous lines of luminous silver began to wind their way up and across the stone, twisting and twining, until they coalesced into the outline of a pair of massive doors.

 _Well, what do you know?_ I thought as I regarded them in stark resignation: At that point in the proceedings, I felt rather like I headed towards my own execution. _This foreknowledge thing is for the birds._

 _“Ithildin,”_ murmured the Istar, trailing his fingers across the glittering lines before glancing up at the sky and the moon that shone overhead. “It mirrors only starlight and moonlight.”

“Look!” Pippin cried suddenly, and I jerked out of my examination of the images upon the doors to stare at the Hobbit. “There! Above the Doors: There are letters.”

Indeed, there were: At the apex of the doorway, there was carved an arc of interwoven letters—Elvish script, if the flowing nature of the characters was any indication—below which was etched the blurred outline of an anvil and hammer surmounted by a crown with seven stars. Underneath these images were engraved two trees (holly, I recognized after a moment of study), both of which bore a likeness of the crescent moon. And, in the center of it all, there gleamed a star with many rays.

“What does the writing say?” queried Frodo as he squinted up at the script with an expression of intense concentration. “I thought I knew the elf-letters, but I cannot read these.”

“You cannot read them,” explained Gandalf, “because the words are written in the elven-tongue of the West of Middle-Earth in the Elder Days: There are few now in the shadowed east who remember it.”

“Can you read them?” came the curious question from Pippin.

“Of course, I can,” said Gandalf, sounding rather affronted that the Hobbit even had to ask. “All the same, they do not say anything of importance to us. They say only that these are the _‘Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.’_ ”

Unable to stop myself at Gandalf’s assertion that we had no need for that last phrase, I released a huff of air in dry amusement, but said nothing.

“And what does that mean? ‘Speak, friend, and enter’?” queried Merry, who, just as all the others, save perhaps Gandalf, was oblivious to the reason for my laughter. Gimli answered him. “Exactly that, Master Hobbit,” he declared. “If you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open.”

“Yes,” acceded Gandalf, though he seemed to speak more so to himself than to rest of us. “Likely these doors are governed by words.” Then, louder, he continued, “Some dwarf-gates will open only at special times, or for particular persons, while others yet call for lock and keys, even when all necessary times and words are known. Or any combination of the three.” He glanced down at Gimli, who had moved to stand at his side as if the Dwarf’s presence alone would make the Doors open. “You know well of such doors, do you not, Gimli, son of Gloin, who was a member of the company of Thorin Oakenshield?”

Some of the excitement that had held Gimli captive since our decision to brave the Mines faded from his face. “Aye, I do,” he answered somberly. “It is a grim tale for the fate that befell Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and his sister-sons. They were my kin.” He then proceeded to clam up, even as Merry and Pippin turned inquisitive eyes on him.

“What happened to them?” asked Pippin after scrutinizing the Dwarf for several moments, but Gimli refused to speak any more on the subject of the once King under the Mountain: He did, however, cast the young Hobbit a surly scowl that just dared him to ask any further questions.

“They died,” murmured Frodo and, when Pippin turned curiously to his fellow Shireling, the dark-haired Hobbit went on, “Uncle Bilbo told me about them once. Thorin was descended from Durin, called the Deathless. He and his Company set out to reclaim the lost kingdom of Erebor from the dragon Smaug.”

Merry harrumphed. “Cousin Bilbo never mentioned his name in any of the stories.” I smirked slightly at the note of resentment in his voice: Evidently, Bilbo had left out a great many details concerning his adventures in the east. “He only ever called him the Dwarf-King.”

Gandalf turned away from the outline of the Doors and looked at Merry. “I daresay it likely pained him to mention Thorin--or his nephews, for that matter--at all,” said the Wizard. “Bilbo became quite close to the Company over the course of their journey to the Mountain; no less so with Durin’s heirs.” 

“But what does that have to do with these doors?” asked Pippin.

The Istar shot him an irritable frown, but explained anyway. “Before his Company set off on their quest to regain the Mountain, I offered to Thorin Oakenshield a gift of a map and key,” he recounted, “both of which were given to me by his father—by Thrain. The map contained mention of a secret entrance—a back door, if you will—to Erebor’s lower halls. A fortunate thing, too, as the Mountain, you see, could not be accessed by means of the Front Gates for that was the way the dragon used whenever he chose to leave his hoard. Any who entered there quickly found themselves at the mercy of a fire drake.”

“As to the question of what this tale has to do with these doors: The Secret Door required not only a special key—the one I mentioned giving to Thorin—but, also, could only be opened at a specific time. ‘By the last light of Durin’s Day,’ to be precise.” Gandalf then gave the wall before him a sharp rap with the end of his staff before saying, “Opening these doors, however, will prove a much easier task, I believe. We need only say the password.”

I could keep silent no longer. “Which is?” I inquired drolly as I reclined fully in my seat, my hands clasped behind my head and ankles crossed as I stretched out on the flat surface of the stone beneath me. Per usual, Gandalf ignored me and, instead, focused all of his attention on the Doors once more. I, meanwhile, simply rolled my eyes and settled in for what I knew would be a long wait.

In truth, there was actually very little I could do in our present circumstances. That is to say, I could have told them the password and gotten us into Moria the moment we discovered the entrance, but Gandalf had forbidden me from just that sort of interference and I would abide by his commands—for the time being, anyway.

I might have been feeling just the slightest bit petty as well, but that’s neither here nor there.

Therefore, I held my peace, even as Gandalf tried phrase after phrase, word after word, in a multitude of languages; some ranging from flowing Elvish dialects to the strange, growling speech of the Dwarves to coarse Mannish tongues and none of which proved of any use. When the Wizard had, at last, run out of possibilities, he threw his hands up in exasperation and moved to sit on the massive root of one of the holly trees, grumbling under his breath all the while.

Wary of the Wizard’s increasing frustration, I exchanged a quick look with Boromir who leaned with crossed arms against tree opposite Gandalf’s. Finding no help from that quarter, I turned back to the old Istar as he griped, “I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Men, Elves and Orcs and, yet, none have sufficed. I do not understand.” 

“What are you going to do then?” piped up Pippin, asking the question that was on all of our minds, though the bold little Halfling was the only one brave (or foolish, depending on how one looked at it) enough to pose it aloud. 

I only barely managed to conceal my sympathetic wince when the Wizard leapt to his feet. “’What am I going to do?’” he echoed the inquiry in swiftly rising irritation. “Smash your head against these doors, Peregrin Took, and, if that does not shatter them and I am given a reprieve from foolish questions, I will attempt to find the opening words.” With that, Gandalf subsided with a huff and a thoroughly subdued Pippin slunk away in embarrassment. 

For my part, I glared at Gandalf for his harsh reaction and got to my feet. I patted the drooping Hobbit on the shoulder as I passed by him and caught the flash of his appreciative grin from the corner of eye. By that point, Gandalf was beyond vexed, and I likely should have been a bit more concerned for my own safety when I made my way over to him and inquired with far more sass than was probably appropriate considering the circumstances, “Is this one of those aforementioned ‘dire situations’?”

Needless to say, I received an absolutely lethal scowl for my trouble, but no further comment.

“Well?” I continued to press as I put my hands on my hips and cocked a brow.

“Be silent, Miss Day, and allow me to think,” snapped the Wizard in response.

“Perhaps there is something else we must do,” suggested Frodo quietly as he, too, approached the Doors. He placed a hand flat against the stone and looked up to study the glowing runes. “Are you certain that these doors do not require a key of some sort or that they can even be opened from the outside at all?”

“Do you doubt me, Frodo Baggins?” asked Gandalf tartly.

Frodo shook his head. “Of course not, my friend, but I fear that mayhap something has changed since last you ventured here.”

Gandalf opened his mouth--gearing up to deliver yet another scathing remark, no doubt--but never had the opportunity for as soon as he began to speak, he found himself cut off by a long, lonesome howl that was then followed by a series of others and all of which sounded entirely too close for comfort. Night had fallen fully by then and the stars twinkled coldly overhead: Trapped between the dark lake and the Walls, we were, to borrow a trite and, yet, unpleasantly applicable phrase, “sitting ducks.”

“That was a wolf,” I pointed out, somewhat stupidly, I’ll admit, but accurate, nonetheless. Yeah, and now would be a great time for that password, I thought with mild panic. I even caught my hand straying to the knife at my hip: The idea of drawing it, though, I quickly discarded because, really, what did I know about actually using the thing effectively? Thoroughly spooked by the thought of being attacked by wolves again, I considered simply shouting out the password and dealing with the fallout from Gandalf later. Something, however, held me back—most likely the notion of Gandalf skinning me alive.

Instead, I returned to Aragorn’s side. If nothing else, I felt safe in his presence, although I would vehemently deny it should anyone ever ask.

“Aye,” agreed Gimli as he rose from his seat on the ground and drew one of a pair of small axes from his belt. He came to stand beside Aragorn and me. “More than one from the sound of it. Wretched beasts.”

“Yes, and soon they will be upon us and we will have nowhere to flee! We should never have come here!” rumbled Boromir suddenly as he pushed away from tree upon which he leaned.

“And where would you have had us go, son of Denethor?” was Gandalf’s scathing demand, and Boromir turned to glower at him. “Already, we have felt the wrath of Caradhas and know that the south is being watched. What would you have us do?”

To this question, the Gondorian captain had no answer and he lapsed into moody silence even as more wolfish howls rent the air, closer now, and Bill the pony shivered in fright. Sam tried to comfort him, but he jerked at his tether and Legolas moved to assist the Hobbit before the beast managed to escape.

“Do not let him run away!” ordered Boromir as he watched the Elven Prince attempt to settle the agitated animal. “It seems we shall have need of him still, if the wolves do not find us first.”

“We’re blinded by your optimism, Boromir,” I muttered and, beside me, Aragorn frowned.

“We cannot linger here much longer, Wizard,” continued the Gondorian lord: He paid little regard to the concerned glances cast his way courtesy of Merry and Pippin, and I noted that Aragorn’s countenance hardened even further. Boromir noticed neither the Shirelings’ worry nor the Ranger’s growing tension. “Night has fallen and we have wolves at our backs!”

Bristling, Gandalf snapped, “I am doing all that I can, Master Boromir!”

With these words, Boromir’s face twisted into such an expression of disgust that I shifted closer to Aragorn: Something in that look made me terribly nervous and, in the back of my mind, I wondered if perhaps the Ring had already begun to affect him. Did that evil thing whisper in his mind even now? Could he feel its pull? Or did he even recognize the fact that a darker force was at play? Prior to that moment, I hadn’t noticed any erratic behavior on his part—nothing that might indicate any sort of madness brought about by the Ring. But, then again, maybe he had thus far managed to temper any unsavory thoughts and he simply could no longer do so, what with the stress of the flight from Caradhas, the first wolf attack, and now our being hunted once again. Perhaps he had begun to crack under the strain? Even after having spent a fair amount of time in his presence, I couldn’t claim to know the Steward’s son particularly well, but I still hoped that he could and would stand firm against the influence of the Dark Lord’s trifle.

“There is time yet,” argued Boromir. “We can turn back and make our way south. Then take the east road to my city.”

Gandalf glowered. “We have discussed this before, Lord Boromir. The southern route takes us too close to Isengard. We have no hope of passage that way.”

Boromir scoffed. “What, then, will we do, Wizard?” he retorted, his tone harsh and rising. Merry and Pippin ducked their heads and eased away until they huddled behind Legolas and Gimli: They were obviously frightened of this new incarnation of the Steward’s son. As it was, the younger Hobbits idolized him and often followed the warrior about, peppering him with questions about swordplay and such. He, in turn, seemed to enjoy their company and was more than happy to teach them the way of the blade. They called him friend, but, at the present moment, he must appear a terrifying caricature of the man they had come to know in recent weeks. “Linger here until there are no roads open to us? Remain until there is no hope for escape?”

Shifting my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other as I listened, I crossed my arms and bit my lip: I dearly wished to say something—anything—to break the mounting hostilities. However, just as I opened my mouth to speak--to shout the password to open the Doors, Gandalf’s warnings be damned—a quiet murmur brought an abrupt end to any further bickering.

“A riddle,” whispered Frodo to himself before he chuckled ruefully, the sound ripe with the sort of embarrassment that one only feels upon the realization of something that should have been obvious all along. Smiling faintly, he turned to Gandalf and repeated louder, “It’s a riddle!” 

Having been ripped so unexpectedly from his brewing confrontation with Boromir by the Ring Bearer’s voice, Gandalf looked at Frodo for a long moment before a sharp bark of laughter escaped the Wizard. Chortling himself at the Hobbit’s cleverness, he tilted his head. “A riddle, you say?”

Frodo nodded. “Yes.” He motioned to the message on the stone. “It means ‘speak “friend” and enter,’ not ‘speak, friend, and enter,’” he explained, the distinction in the semantics made apparent by his tone. “What’s the Elvish word for ‘friend?’”

 _“Mellon,”_ intoned the Wizard and, just like that, the Doors gave a great groan and began to open. When the gateway loomed wide and dark before us, something that felt very much like relief seemed to settle over the rest of the company. I, on the other hand, gulped as I peered fretfully into the pitch darkness: I knew very well what lay beyond that shadowed doorway and the mere thought of it sent another shiver skittering through me.

“Well, then,” said Gandalf with rather a great deal more enthusiasm than any one person should possess in our present position. “Let us make haste and enter.”

Despite the command, no one moved. Instead, we all glanced warily at one another as it came to our attention that, upon entering the Mines, we would find ourselves surrounded by nothing more than darkness and stone. I couldn’t help but notice that the only member of our company who seemed even remotely pleased about that fact was Gimli, who, as a Dwarf, had been born for such an environment, although even he hesitated somewhat at the ominous maw of a door before us.

All the same, it took only a sharp glance from Gandalf to spring the others into action. With practiced ease, they began to gather up what supplies we’d removed from the pony earlier before swiftly erasing all signs of our presence from that place. Once he finished, Aragorn took an unhappy Sam with him to say goodbye to Bill the pony before they sent the animal on his way. Once the pair returned, Sam gave one last miserable sniff, swiping angrily at his damp cheeks with the back of his hand, before he hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and put on a brave face. Aragorn himself seemed somewhat troubled by the Hobbit’s upset: I think that, like me, he disliked seeing any of the little fellows hurt in any way. They were such merry creatures by nature and to see Sam so distraught was disquieting, to say the least.

“Come,” said Gandalf sternly, though I saw him cast a rather sympathetic glance (for him, anyway) in Sam’s direction, so, perhaps, he was not quiet as unmoved as he initially seemed. “The night grows long and there are wolves at our back. We must make haste.” With a short gesture for us to follow, he stepped over the threshold and into the Mines.

The others trailed behind the Wizard after only a second’s hesitation, and I found myself with no other choice but to do so as well. Be that as it may, it took me several moments to gather the wherewithal to move my feet. Taking in a deep breath, I released it in a long, slow exhale before I steeled myself and, at last, stepped into the shadows beyond the doors. 

However, I’d ventured only a short distance down the corridor when I was brought up short, having nearly crashed into Boromir’s broad back when he came to a sudden halt in the middle of the passage without any warning whatsoever. 

“What the—“ I cut off abruptly when I peered around the Gondorian lord’s arm and caught sight of what lay before us.

_Bones._

Illuminated by the light shining from the strange crystal stop Gandalf’s staff, the skeletons of what appeared to be dozens of long dead Dwarves filled the entrance chamber. Alongside them lay dented shields and helms, broken arrows, rusted swords, and an assortment of other ruined weaponry: All were scattered among the desiccated corpses and debris. The remains of many goblins, too, were strewn across the stone floor, though their numbers were fewer, and it took me only a moment to understand what had taken place here in this tiny room.

A massacre…

Swallowing roughly, I took a step out from behind Boromir and surveyed the scene with the grim hope that it was not so awful as it appeared to be at first glance. No such luck: Upon closer examination, I discovered that not all of those Dwarves who had fallen there were clad as warriors or guardsmen as I’d first thought. Granted, it was difficult to tell, considering the fact that what little of their clothing that remained was moth-eaten and dirtied with the dust of years. Even so, I noted more than one body arrayed in what appeared to have been a long dress or in a simple tunic and breeches. Many of these people had most likely been common folk; citizens of the realm of Khazad-dûm who had attempted to flee for their lives in the wake of an Orcish invasion.

 _Dear God…_ was the only thought that crossed my mind as I gaped in horror. Truly, there were no words to describe the macabre tableau for I had never seen anything like it—not in reality, anyway, and horror films have the major distinction of the viewer recognizing that what he or she sees on the big screen is only fantasy, no matter how real it appears to be. Not this—this was something else entirely.

What was even worse was that, from somewhere ahead in the gloom, I heard something that sounded very much like a stifled sob. Taking a few steps forward, I saw that Gimli knelt, trembling, on the stone floor. In his hands, he clutched a dented helmet, its surface darkened with age and what I feared had once been blood. At the Dwarf’s side stood a solemn Gandalf, and the bright, white light from his staff cast strange shadows among the piles of bones, broken stone, and scattered armor. No one said anything for a long moment: I suspected that no one knew what to say.

But, then, from the corner of my eye, I spied sudden movement and, turning my attention away from the mourning Dwarf, I watched Legolas pluck a shabby, black-shafted arrow from one of the shrunken bodies. “Goblins,” he said with a snarl of his lip and tossed the tattered projectile down as if it had burned him. In a flash, he had an arrow of his own drawn and ready.

"All Father protect us,” Boromir whispered behind me, and I shot him a startled glance when he whipped the sword from its scabbard at his side, raised his shield, and all but growled, “This is no mine. It’s a tomb.” 

“Out,” ordered Gandalf then, and there was brief moment of stunned and confused silence as each of us tried to determine if he was actually serious. “Get out! We cannot go this way.”

“But Mister Gandalf, we—“ began Sam tentatively, but the Wizard was quick to interrupt.

“We must turn back,” he maintained as he began to herd the Hobbits back towards the entrance. “The Mines of Moria are closed to us.” A grim-faced Gimli followed, his axes up and at the ready, as Legolas and Boromir prowled after him, their own weapons raised while they gazed warily around the room as if they expected to be attacked any second.

Which might very well be the case, I mused darkly as I trailed behind the Gondorian and Elven warriors. Aragorn remained at my side, his own blade in hand, as we backtracked towards the entrance as swiftly as possible in the creeping darkness. Said darkness seemed to thicken, pressing in on us, and the only things that I could hear were my own heartbeat in my ears and my breath catching whenever I stumbled over a loose stone. Or, rather, what I fervently hoped was only loose stone: The tell tale “crunch” and “snap” led me to believe that whatever I trod upon was somewhat more organic than that, and I cringed whenever one of those crackling “some things” gave beneath my clumsy steps.

“Oh, God,” I groaned when I stumbled in the dark and managed to put my foot through the ribcage of a mummified goblin. Ripping free with disgusted haste, I found myself swallowing down rising gorge as I tried to dislodge the bits of mealy bone and dried, black flesh that clung to my jeans. The string of quiet curses that came after would have made sailor blush, but it was either that or completely lose my mind and I know which option I’d prefer. Nonetheless, the noise drew the notice of Aragorn, who gripped my wrist and proceeded to tug me along behind him. 

Despite feeling as if I were three years old again, I can’t deny my gratitude for the Ranger’s sure guidance. As it was, my chest felt tight, my breath shallow, and it vaguely crossed my mind that I might very well teeter on the verge of an honest-to-goodness panic attack. As such, I doubt I would have made it out of the darkness without Aragorn’s assistance.

Thankfully, when we, after what felt like hours (even though it had hardly been more than a few minutes at best), emerged into the free air beyond the Doors, I was finally able to take a deep, relieved breath and release some of the anxiety that coiled in my gut. However, the respite at having left the crushing shadows behind was short-lived, and Aragorn had no sooner release his hold on me before turning to make sure that all of our party was present and accounted for when a great shudder ripped through ground under our feet.

Then, in keeping with just how wonderfully the rest of the journey had gone so far, all Hell broke loose.

“MISTER FRODO!” Sam’s terrified cry echoed through the vale just as another tremor, this one even worse than the first, rocked the ground.

The seism had me stumbling backwards until I surrendered all semblance of grace and toppled onto my backside. Petrified, I watched as Frodo was hoisted high in the air by what looked like, for all intents and purposes, juiced-up calamari. A wave of frigid, fetid water doused the shore (and me, by way of my sitting there on the ground like a doofus), and I could only gawk in appalled silence, my eyes wide and all limbs locked, as the cavernous maul of the creature emerged from the roiling surface of the lake.

_The Watcher…_

“ARAGORN!” came the little Hobbit’s frightened yelp as he dangled helplessly from one of the beast's tentacles. “ARAGORN!”

“HELP HIM!” came Sam’s voice again. “HELP!” 

“BACK INTO THE MINES! QUICKLY!” shouted Gandalf as he charged forward alongside Aragorn and the others to save the Ring-Bearer from the Watcher in the Water. “MISS DAY! ON YOUR FEET, YOU LITTLE FOOL!”

Snapping out of my stunned daze at the Wizard’s bellow, I tried to scramble back to my feet, slipping and sliding over loose rocks and mud, and then grunted in pain when my foot slid out from under me and I crashed to one knee.

“MISS KELLY!” I heard Pippin shout and I looked up just in time to see one of the great holly trees that guarded the entrance to Moria sail through the air; it having been ripped clear from the ground by the monstrous, serpentine appendage wrapped around its grey-green trunk. I swore and dove away, even as I was showered with dirt and broken stone. Clambering up, I made a mad dash for the open door of the Mines.

“THE MINES! GET INTO THE MINES!” I heard Gandalf roar again from somewhere behind me, but I had no idea where he was in the chaos outside. In fact, I quickly discovered that I had no idea where any of my companions were and I fretted over the thought that I might be left alone in the dark. But, then, something small slammed into me and I found myself knocked onto my back.

“THE HELL—“ I yelled, fighting the sodden, wriggling thing that had tackled me. “GET OFF OF ME!”

“Miss Kelly!” exclaimed Pippin desperately and I froze immediately at the sound of his voice. “It’s me!”

Gripping what I thought were his shoulders, I gave him a bit of a shake and asked sharply, “Pippin? Where’s Merry? Is everyone—“ My mouth snapped shut abruptly at the furious, earsplitting roar that reverberated through the cavern. Thundering footsteps followed, and it was all I could do to roll my Hobbit companion and myself out of the way to avoid being run over by the rest of our party as they rushed into the passageway.

“BACK! GET BACK!” Gandalf’s voice once again boomed in the darkness before the world seemed to crash down around us. There was a rumble of sound, of boulders crashing together and rock grinding and snapping, as the Watcher thrashed outside and the door to the Mines collapsed in an avalanche of shattered stone.

And, then, there was just silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, let's pretend that, for the sake of this fic, the inhabitants of ME have no idea what chocolate is, although I’m fairly sure that the Hobbits would enjoy it. 
> 
> Please forgive any errors you may find in this chapter. I wanted to get it posted for the holidays, but I've been crazy busy and ran behind, per usual. 
> 
> Cheers.


End file.
